Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs That time itself could not arouse. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue To hear what secrets might accrue— How generations came and went Through branches heavenwardly bent. The wind sang songs of forgotten years, Of joy distilled from human tears, Of lovers’ vows ‘neath boughs so deep, Promises the roots still keep. Now stars emerge like memories bright, Guarding the forest through...