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 mountains wear their robes of mist, Why stars in silent paths persist. Two centuries of wind and rain Have carved in bark a hidden strain, Yet in its needled language deep The forest’s memories lie asleep. Now dawn arrives with golden hand To bless this old and steadfast land...
