Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs That time itself cannot arouse. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue To hear what only pines construe - How stars were sown in midnight’s deep, Why mountains wake while valleys sleep. The wind-carved words, both old and true, Spoke of the world’s first morning dew, Of seasons’ dance and rivers’ flow In verses only pines would know. Now he continues on his way With secrets of the co...