Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lonely pine begins to sing Of ancient dreams on feathered wing. Once two young hearts by twilight met, With vows the stars would not forget. They carved their names upon the bark, A fleeting spark in deepening dark. But seasons turned with restless hand, And one now dwells in distant land. Yet when the northern winds blow cold, The tree still tells that tale of old. A woodcutter who pauses near Sometimes imagines...
