The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Ancient pines whisper a timeless dream. Their needles trace tales on the night’s dark screen, Of mountains old and rivers serene. A traveler pauses, his heart held still, By the murmur of branches atop the hill. No words are spoken, yet truths unfold— In nature’s silence, stories are told.
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Ancient pines whisper a timeless dream. Their needles trace tales on the night’s dark screen, Of mountains old and rivers serene. A traveler pauses, his heart held still, By the murmur of branches atop the hill. No words are spoken, yet truths unfold— In nature’s silence, stories are told.
