Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone pine whispers ancient tales— Of winter’s bite and summer gales. Two travelers paused one frosty night, Their lanterns casting fragile light. They spoke of roads they meant to take, Of dreams pursued for honor’s sake. The elder smiled, “Look to the tree— Its roots run deep, yet it stays free. Though winds may howl and boughs may bend, Its strength derives from how it mends.” They journeyed on at dawn’s first ...
