Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its needles trace tales on the breeze— Of mountain paths and frozen seas. A traveler pauses, leans his ear, To catch the stories, old and clear. He hears the laughter of the spring, The winter’s quiet murmuring. The wind composes, branch by branch, A symphony that will entrance. Each note a leaf, each rustle rhyme, Transcending boundaries of space and time. When dawn arrives with golden light, The pine falls silent...
