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 the murmurs, low and deep— The promises the mountains keep. One bough that brushed his weary face Had carved a line in hidden space: “Though seasons turn and pathways wind, The heart leaves what it seeks behind.” No map nor star could guide him there, Just breath of pines in cooling ai...
