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 light divide. He heard a murmur, low and deep— The rhythm that the mountains keep. One bough, like an old prophet’s hand, Pointed toward some unseen land. It spoke of seasons come and gone, Of steadfast roots in soil alone. No human language shaped the sound, Yet understanding bloomed around. The wind throug...