The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor What time and memory restore. A traveler paused at eventide Where shadow and the light divide. He heard the murmurs, low and deep— The promises the mountains keep. Each gust that stirred the highest bough Carried a forgotten vow, Of lovers parting by the stream In some long-lost, moon-bright dream. The wind sang tales of joy and fears, Of laughter turning into tears, Of seasons circling ...
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor What time and memory restore. A traveler paused at eventide Where shadow and the light divide. He heard the murmurs, low and deep— The promises the mountains keep. Each gust that stirred the highest bough Carried a forgotten vow, Of lovers parting by the stream In some long-lost, moon-bright dream. The wind sang tales of joy and fears, Of laughter turning into tears, Of seasons circling ...
