The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the stars above, While telling tales of timeless love. A traveler rests against its bark, And listens to the forest’s dark. The wind carries a mournful song, Of kingdoms lost and rights made wrong. Yet in the stillness, hope takes root, As wisdom springs from nature’s foot. For every needle tells a part— A story woven in the heart. So linger here where shadows play, Until the breaking of the day.
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the stars above, While telling tales of timeless love. A traveler rests against its bark, And listens to the forest’s dark. The wind carries a mournful song, Of kingdoms lost and rights made wrong. Yet in the stillness, hope takes root, As wisdom springs from nature’s foot. For every needle tells a part— A story woven in the heart. So linger here where shadows play, Until the breaking of the day.
