Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs That time itself cannot arouse. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue To hear the wind’s old story true— How mountains shift and rivers turn, Yet emerald needles still discern The secret paths where memories flow Between the falling flakes of snow. Two centuries have brushed its bark, Each leaving some eternal mark, But deeper runs the silent thread Where roots drink what the leaves ...
