Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine recounts a dream

Of mountains veiled in misty blue,

Where cranes take flight and rivers brew

Their stories in the jade-green deep.

A wandering poet pauses near,

His heart attuned to voices clear

That drift through needled boughs like verse—

Each whispered tale a universe

Of seasons turned and memories kept.

He inks the words on silk so white,

A symphony of fall’s delight:

*”The wind composes, pines translate—

Both old and new collaborate

To sing what time cannot erase.”*

Now centuries have flowed along,

Yet still resounds that timeless song

When moonlight touches pinewood shade—

The poetry that will not fade,

Etched in the land’s enduring grace.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine recounts a dream

Of mountains veiled in misty blue,

Where cranes take flight and rivers brew

Their stories in the jade-green deep.

A wandering poet pauses near,

His heart attuned to voices clear

That drift through needled boughs like verse—

Each whispered tale a universe

Of seasons turned and memories kept.

He inks the words on silk so white,

A symphony of fall’s delight:

*”The wind composes, pines translate—

Both old and new collaborate

To sing what time cannot erase.”*

Now centuries have flowed along,

Yet still resounds that timeless song

When moonlight touches pinewood shade—

The poetry that will not fade,

Etched in the land’s enduring grace.