Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lonely pine begins to sing Of ancient dreams on weary wing. Two travelers pause amidst the snow, Their path uncertain, steps yet slow. They hear the tree’s melancholic tune Beneath the winter’s lonely moon. One recalls a childhood tale Of how these woods would never fail To guide lost souls with gentle grace To some more hopeful, warmer place. And so they walk through frosted light, The pine still singing through...
