Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor What time and memory restore. A traveler paused at eventide Where shadows and the breezes glide. He heard a voice like rustling deep That stirred long-forgotten sleep. “Three hundred years these roots have grown Through silent frost and sunlit stone. I’ve seen dynasties rise and fall Yet stand through summer, winter, squall.” The wind composed in branches high A ballad ‘neath the starlit...
