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 voice among the boughs— Not wind, but some forgotten vow. “Who speaks?” he asked the deepening gloom. The pines replied, “All who assume That silence means the world is bare— But stories drift on mountain air.” So sat he till the stars grew old And heard what pines have always told: ...
