Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Of winter’s hushed and solemn vows. A traveler paused in twilight’s glow, To hear what only pines would know. Of mountains old and rivers deep, Where timeless secrets lie asleep. Two hundred words the wind has told, In needles green and bark of gold. A story spun from earth and sky, As constellations drift on high.
