Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lonely pine begins to sing Of ancient dreams on weary wing. Two travelers pause amidst the snow, Their hearts still bearing summer’s glow. They speak of roads they left behind, Of fractured hopes and love undefined. The wind then carries through the night A verse that makes their burdens light: “Though paths may diverge and years may pass, True journeys live in hearts, not maps.” The pines keep whispering this lo...
