Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream Of lonely winds that sigh and pass Through needled branches and dew-kissed grass. A traveler paused one autumn night, His lantern casting fragile light, And heard the tree in whispered verse Tell tales of joy and universe. The stars leaned down in bright array To hear what the old tree would say— Of winter snows and summer rains, Of silent joys and hidden pains. Now wanderers on this mountain way Still hear the pines at cl...