Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needled boughs weave tales untold, Of winter’s frost and summers old. A traveler walks the shadowed lane, Hearing whispers like gentle rain. They speak of love, of joy, and strife, The evergreen and fleeting life. One tree recalls a princess fair, Who left her jeweled comb right there. Another sighs of wars long past, Where loyal hearts held shadows fast. But as the dawn breaks gold and clear, The pines fall sil...
