The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recalls a stream That once did through the valley flow, Where memories like wildflowers grow. A traveler paused at eventide, Where fading light and shadows hide, He heard the pines in gentle sigh, Recounting tales of days gone by. Of lovers’ vows in spring’s embrace, And warriors’ final resting place, Of harvest songs in autumn’s gold, And winter’s stories yet untold. The wind carried a mournful tune, Beneath the watchful eye the moon, Yet ...
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recalls a stream That once did through the valley flow, Where memories like wildflowers grow. A traveler paused at eventide, Where fading light and shadows hide, He heard the pines in gentle sigh, Recounting tales of days gone by. Of lovers’ vows in spring’s embrace, And warriors’ final resting place, Of harvest songs in autumn’s gold, And winter’s stories yet untold. The wind carried a mournful tune, Beneath the watchful eye the moon, Yet ...
