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 boughs in murmured speech Of mountain lore beyond his reach. They sang of emperors long departed, Of loves begun and friendships started, Of ink-stained poets who once came To carve their verses in this frame. The wind arose, the tale grew faint— A symphony without complaint. He le...