Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone pine whispers ancient tales— Of winter’s bite and spring’s warm gales. Two travelers pause amidst the snow, Their path obscured by shadows’ grow. One hears the tree’s faint, mournful sigh, While stars ignite the velvet sky. “A thousand years I’ve stood,” it breathes, “Through trembling roots and rustling leaves. I’ve seen empires rise and fall like dew, Yet steadfast held this mountain view.” They linger til...