The Whispering Pines
Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow, Ancient pines whisper secrets soft and low. Their branches sway in the night’s cool breeze, Carrying tales through centuries of trees. A traveler rests against the rugged bark, Listening to echoes in the dark. Of mountains high and rivers deep, Where memories and dreams both sleep. Each needle holds a story untold— Of winter’s frost and summer’s gold. The wind composes a timeless rhyme, Transcending the boundaries of space and time.
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow, Ancient pines whisper secrets soft and low. Their branches sway in the night’s cool breeze, Carrying tales through centuries of trees. A traveler rests against the rugged bark, Listening to echoes in the dark. Of mountains high and rivers deep, Where memories and dreams both sleep. Each needle holds a story untold— Of winter’s frost and summer’s gold. The wind composes a timeless rhyme, Transcending the boundaries of space and time.
