Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through ages borne, On winds that dance from dusk till morn. A traveler paused one starlit night, To rest within its sheltering sight. He heard the boughs in rhythm sway, And thus the tree began to say: “Three hundred years have graced my bark, Since first I sprouted in the dark. I’ve witnessed emperors rise and fall, Heard nightingales’ enchanting call. A poet carved his verse in me, A lover’s vow bene...