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 have said.

Tonight the branches gently sway

With tales that never fade away.