Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself briefly allows. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue, His heart weighed down by cares so true. The tree spoke low of ages past, How sorrow’s shadows never last. Through winds that change like fortune’s wheel, Its roots held fast, its boughs would feel. Each storm that passed but made it strong, Teaching the art to right the wrong. Now in this quiet, sacred spac...
