The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace tales on the breeze— Of lonely wanderers, rustling leaves, And starlit paths that twist and weave. One traveler paused to hear its song, A melody both old and long. He learned the secrets trees hold dear: How time stands still when night draws near, And wisdom grows with every year. Now when the western wind blows low, The pines still share what they all know— That simplest truths are often found Where ...
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace tales on the breeze— Of lonely wanderers, rustling leaves, And starlit paths that twist and weave. One traveler paused to hear its song, A melody both old and long. He learned the secrets trees hold dear: How time stands still when night draws near, And wisdom grows with every year. Now when the western wind blows low, The pines still share what they all know— That simplest truths are often found Where ...
