Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone pine whispers ancient tales Of winter winds and summer gales. Two travelers met where pathways crossed, With time’s sweet moment lightly glossed. They shared a cup of warmth and cheer, Then parted ways—a vanished year. Now stars above like memories burn, As distant fires in turn return. The pine still sings its hushed refrain: “All meetings end in joy or pain.”
