Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares secret dreams. Its branches trace the starry streams, While memories flow in silent beams. A traveler rests against its bark, Hearing whispers in the dark Of lovers’ vows and larks that sang When dynasty bells in temple rang. The wind composes timeless verse That mourns the universe’s curse, Yet comforts every sorrow’s sting With promises that spring will bring.
