Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Two ancient pines converse in dreams. Their needles trace forgotten tales On forest paths where memory fails. One speaks of mountains clad in mist, Of roots by winter’s frost once kissed. The other sighs of passing years, Of joy and sorrow, hopes and fears. They’ve watched the seasons come and go, Seen empires rise and rivers flow. Yet standing tall through wind and rain, Their whispered wisdom shall remain. A breeze arrives at break of day To carry their...
