Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares secret dreams. Its needles trace the stories old, Of winters harsh and summers gold. A traveler pauses in the night, Hearing whispers in fading light. The wind conveys what words can’t hold— A tale of time in branches told. No moral ends this gentle rhyme, Just nature’s breath across all time. Where every soul may freely find A moment’s peace for heart and mind.
