Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recalls a stream That once did through the valley flow, Where secrets only elders know. A traveler paused at eventide, His weary thoughts he could not hide. The wind spoke through the pine trees tall, Of kingdoms rise and empires fall. Two butterflies in dance took flight, Like drifting dreams in golden light. They circled once, then flew away— What more is there for me to say? The mountains stand, the rivers run, As they have since time be...
