Beneath the moon’s soft silver glow, Two ancient pines begin to show A wisdom older than the breeze That stirs their needled canopies. They speak of mountains clad in mist, Of seasons that persist and twist, Of travelers on the path below Who come and go, who come and go. One tells a tale from long ago— A youth who walked through winter’s snow To find a bloom that knew no frost, No matter what the world had lost. The other sighs with memories Of crashing waves and distant seas, Of roots that ...
