Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow, Ancient pines whisper tales of long ago. A traveler rests on mossy stone, Hearing echoes in the wind’s low moan. Of emperors lost in misty dreams, And mountain streams that sing like themes From forgotten dynasties’ grand schemes— All woven through the pinewood seams. The stars above blink silently, Keeping secrets for eternity. Yet in this quiet, one may see The soul of all that’s yet to be.
