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 tall Through summer sun and winter squall. I’ve seen dynasties rise and fade Beneath my eternal green shade.” The wind then sang through branches high A lullaby to earth and sky. It spoke o...
