Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently stream, A lonely pine tree stands in grace And carves its thoughts upon this place. Its needles write in ancient tongue Of seasons past and songs unsung— How winter’s frost and summer’s rain Have danced across this wild domain. Two travelers pause amidst the deep, Where shadows and slow memories creep. One hears the wind’s poetic sigh, The other sees the stars drift by. They leave no footprints on the moss, Yet gain what many se...
