Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest holds a secret dream. Its needles murmur tales of old, Of lovers’ vows and courage bold. A traveler once lost his way, And in these woods decided to stay. He built a cabin small and plain, To escape the city’s endless strain. Each night he’d hear the pines converse, In verses sweet and sometimes terse. They spoke of seasons come and gone, Of gentle dawns and storms withdrawn. One winter eve, he saw a light, That danced between the t...
