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.