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.
