Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself briefly allows. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue, To hear what only pines construe. Of mountains old and rivers deep, Secrets the winds in confidence keep. Two centuries passed in one night’s tale, As stars above grew faint and pale. The pine fell silent with first light, Leaving the world to morning’s bright.
