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 still midnight, His lantern casting fragile light, And heard the tree in murmured verse Of joys and sorrows universe. “Three hundred years have graced my view Of skies both azure and of hue, Yet never hath a soul stood still To learn what time cannot fulfill.” The man then sat on roots exposed, Where countless secrets lay compos...
