The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs That time herself forgets somehow. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue To tie a ribbon, crimson-blue, Where roots like wrinkled fingers twine - A silent vow to mark the sign. Now winds still hum that long-lost song Of love that rights a lifetime’s wrong, Though none remain who know the words But pines and wise, remembering birds.
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs That time herself forgets somehow. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue To tie a ribbon, crimson-blue, Where roots like wrinkled fingers twine - A silent vow to mark the sign. Now winds still hum that long-lost song Of love that rights a lifetime’s wrong, Though none remain who know the words But pines and wise, remembering birds.
