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 shadow and the light divide. He heard a voice like rustling rain That spoke of joy and older pain. “Walk where the roots make patterns deep, And secrets that the mountains keep Shall rise like mist to meet the moon— A forgotten yet familiar tune.” So passed an hour or maybe years, The wisdom washed away his fears. He left ...