Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself briefly allows A glimpse of stories yet untold In shades of emerald and gold. A traveler paused one autumn night To rest within its dappled light, And heard the tree in murmured verse Of joys and sorrows diverse— How seasons change yet roots hold fast, How smallest moments come to last. The wind now carries fragments faint Of that cool night without constraint,...
