The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs That time itself cannot arouse. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue To hear what only pines construe - How mountains wear their robes of mist, Why stars in silent paths persist. Two centuries of wind and rain Have carved in bark a hidden strain, Yet in its needled language deep The forest’s memories lie asleep. Now dawn arrives with golden hand To bless this old and steadfast land...
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs That time itself cannot arouse. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue To hear what only pines construe - How mountains wear their robes of mist, Why stars in silent paths persist. Two centuries of wind and rain Have carved in bark a hidden strain, Yet in its needled language deep The forest’s memories lie asleep. Now dawn arrives with golden hand To bless this old and steadfast land...
