Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Two ancient pines share whispered dreams. Their branches weave through misted air, Of mountain paths and lairs of bears. One tells of storms it braved alone, With roots clenched deep in steadfast stone. The other sighs of nesting doves, And seasons turning like lost loves. A woodcutter once paused to hear Their murmurs, clear yet strangely veiled. He left his axe to rest that day, And carried their slow song away. Now travelers on that shadowed road Feel ...
