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 shadows and truths coincide. He heard the boughs in murmured speech Of mountains high and oceans deep. One tale they shared of love’s brief bloom— A youth who left his village home, Carving two names on bark now grown Over the scars like healing bone. The wind blew words across the years: “Joy dwells in moments, not in yea...
