The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needled boughs, with whispered sighs, Tell tales of centuries gone by. A traveler walks the mossy trail, Where shadows dance and night winds wail. He hears a voice among the trees— A gentle murmur on the breeze. It speaks of love and lost regrets, Of sunlit days and starry nets. The pines remember all they’ve seen: The wars, the peace, what might have been. He rests upon a root-woven seat, As wisdom flows, profo...
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needled boughs, with whispered sighs, Tell tales of centuries gone by. A traveler walks the mossy trail, Where shadows dance and night winds wail. He hears a voice among the trees— A gentle murmur on the breeze. It speaks of love and lost regrets, Of sunlit days and starry nets. The pines remember all they’ve seen: The wars, the peace, what might have been. He rests upon a root-woven seat, As wisdom flows, profo...
