Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor What time and memory restore. A traveler paused at eventide Where shadow and the breezes glide. He heard a voice like rustling streams That spoke of long-forgotten themes. Of emperors in silk arrayed, Of humble monks who knelt and prayed, Of ink-stained poets leaving verse On nature’s beauty to immerse. The wind now hums through branches high A lullaby to those who sigh— That every soul ...
