Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the stars above, While telling tales of timeless love. A traveler paused to hear its song, And in that moment, belonged. For nature speaks in silent ways, Through rustling leaves and sunlit days. The wind carried the story far, Beyond the mountains, past the star. Now every pine upon the hill, Keeps whispering when the world is still.
