Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream Of lonely winds that trace the shore, And timeless waves that crash and roar. A hermit walks with staff in hand Across the unfamiliar land, His shadow dances on the stone— A fleeting king without a throne. Two cranes take flight toward the west, Carrying longing in their breast For peaks where clouds like banners flow… Where all things end, and all things grow. The tree still whispers through the night, Blending deep darkn...
