Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where poets once with brush in hand Wrote verses on the shifting sand. Their ink has faded with the rain, Their whispered dreams a faint refrain, Yet in the rustling needles deep, The mountain guards their secrets keep. A deer now drinks where inkstones lay, And time has washed the words away— But when the autumn wind blows south, The pine still speaks with truth’s own mouth.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where poets once with brush in hand Wrote verses on the shifting sand. Their ink has faded with the rain, Their whispered dreams a faint refrain, Yet in the rustling needles deep, The mountain guards their secrets keep. A deer now drinks where inkstones lay, And time has washed the words away— But when the autumn wind blows south, The pine still speaks with truth’s own mouth.