Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where poets once with brush in hand Wrote verses on the shifting sand. Their ink has faded with the years, Yet through the wind one still hears Echoes of songs from long ago— A dance of characters in snow. A traveler pauses by the tree, Feeling their melancholy glee, And carves new words upon the stone: “Even lost voices find their home.” The mountain keeps each whispered line In needles’ shade and cool design, Where every...
