Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently flow, The pines recount a timeless dream Of seasons past and winds that blow. A traveler paused to hear their tale, Of mountain paths in morning’s haze, Of winter’s frost and summer’s gale, And autumn’s golden-blazing days. Their whispered words like poetry, Spoke truths that only ancients know - How roots embrace the earth’s deep mystery, While branches dance with falling snow. The moon moved west, the tale grew faint, Yet in t...
