The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its needles trace tales on the breeze— Of mountain paths and frozen seas. A traveler pauses, leans his ear, To catch the stories, old and clear. He hears the laughter of the spring, The winter’s quiet murmuring. The wind composes, branch by branch, A symphony that will entrance. Each note a leaf, each rustle rhyme, Transcending boundaries of space and time. When dawn arrives with golden light, The pine falls silent...
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its needles trace tales on the breeze— Of mountain paths and frozen seas. A traveler pauses, leans his ear, To catch the stories, old and clear. He hears the laughter of the spring, The winter’s quiet murmuring. The wind composes, branch by branch, A symphony that will entrance. Each note a leaf, each rustle rhyme, Transcending boundaries of space and time. When dawn arrives with golden light, The pine falls silent...
