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 the breezes hide. He heard a voice like rustling deep That stirred long-forgotten sleep. “Walk where the roots make winding ways Through seventy moons and seven days, And you shall find what lies between The real and the unseen.” He followed paths of moss and stone Into a world he’d never known, Where every tre...
