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, To hear what only pines construe. Of lovers’ vows in spring’s embrace, And winter’s frost on nature’s face. Each needle holds a story sealed, In fragrant resins, slow revealed. The mountain keeps what men forget— Both joy and timeless regret. Now stars emerge like memories bright, As day concedes to thoughtf...
