The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone crane dips its wings to drink From waters black as polished ink. An ancient pine, with bark like stone, Stands watching, never quite alone; Its needles trace the wind’s low song— A melody both deep and long. Here time forgets its hurried pace, And leaves no mark upon this place, Just stillness woven through the air, A truth beyond all words or prayer.
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone crane dips its wings to drink From waters black as polished ink. An ancient pine, with bark like stone, Stands watching, never quite alone; Its needles trace the wind’s low song— A melody both deep and long. Here time forgets its hurried pace, And leaves no mark upon this place, Just stillness woven through the air, A truth beyond all words or prayer.
