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 mortal ear to comprehend What winds and roots together blend. Two travelers on a dusty road, Beneath the tree their rest bestowed, Heard voices in the evening breeze— Not quite the sound of swaying trees, But echoes of a long-lost song That through the branches swept along. They spoke of love that never died, Of promises kept deep inside, Of ba...
