Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone pine whispers ancient tales— Of winter’s bite and spring’s warm gales. Its needles trace upon the ground Secrets that the wind has found: How stars are born in midnight deep, How rivers wake from frozen sleep. Two travelers pause amidst the snow, Hearing what the pines bestow— Not with sound, but through the soul, A timeless truth that makes them whole. They journey on with lighter feet, Where mountain and e...
