Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs That time itself cannot arouse. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue To hear what only pines construe - How stars were sown in azure deep, Why mountains vigil while worlds sleep. The wind translates each needled verse To truths that universe immerse: That roots hold memories of the earth, And snowflakes know each crystal’s worth. Now wanderers who pass this way Hear pines murmur at...