Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Two ancient pines converse in dreams. Their boughs like weathered arms extend, As secrets through the night they send. One speaks of mountains clad in mist, Of timeless truths by stars kissed. The other sighs with wind-swept grace, Of seasons’ slow and steady pace. They’ve witnessed centuries unfold, Their roots deep in the earth take hold. A symphony of rustling leaves, That every passing moment weaves. At dawn, they stand in silent praise, Crowned gold ...
