Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone pine whispers ancient dreams Through needled boughs and starlit seams. Two travelers paused in twilight’s hue To hear the wind’s tale, old and true— Of how the roots drink time’s deep brew And how the branches hold the view. They sat till dawn’s first light appeared, Their weary souls by whispers cheered, For in the pine’s voice, calm and clear, Lay all the peace the world holds dear. No more they sought the...
