Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Of winter’s hush and summer’s vows. A traveler paused in twilight’s glow, To hear what only pines would know. The wind-carved stories, old and deep, That mountains in their silence keep. He left with needles in his hair, And peace beyond all mortal care. For in those whispers, dark and bright, Lay secrets of the coming night.
