Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Two ancient pines share whispered dreams. Their branches weave through misted air, With secrets only mountains bear. One tells of winds from distant shores, Of crashing waves on hidden doors. The other speaks in rustling sighs, Of stars that fall from midnight skies. They’ve stood through sun and winter’s chill, On rocky slope and silent hill. Their roots run deep in timeless earth, Witness to death and birth. A traveler pauses in the night, Hearing their...
