Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor What time and memory restore. A traveler paused at eventide Where shadow and the breezes glide. He heard a voice like rustling deep That stirred long-forgotten sleep. “Three hundred years have I stood here, Watching seasons disappear. Each ring within my trunk holds fast The echoes of the ages past.” The wind through branches softly hummed Of battles lost and kings succumbed, Of lovers’ ...