Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a dream. Its needles trace in fragrant sighs The passage of forgotten skies. A traveler paused here yesterday, Whose weary heart had lost its way. He listened to the boughs’ low song And found the strength to journey on. Now stars compose in branches high A lullaby for those who pass by— Each whispered verse the wind entwines Becomes a map for longing minds. What secrets do these trees conceal? The truths that only stillness feels—...