Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

Where silent waters gently stream,

A lonely pine tree stands in grace,

With whispered tales of time and space.

Its branches sway in night’s cool breeze,

Through rustling songs of memories,

Of travelers past who paused to rest,

With dreams and hopes within their chest.

One autumn eve a poet came,

Whose heart was filled with grief and shame,

He heard the pine’s consoling sigh,

And watched the stars parade on high.

The tree spoke not in words so clear,

But calmness washed away his fear,

He left at dawn with lighter soul,

Made broken pieces once more whole.

Now generations come and go,

Yet still the ancient pine doth grow,

Reminding all who seek its shade—

That peace is in the choices made.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

Where silent waters gently stream,

A lonely pine tree stands in grace,

With whispered tales of time and space.

Its branches sway in night’s cool breeze,

Through rustling songs of memories,

Of travelers past who paused to rest,

With dreams and hopes within their chest.

One autumn eve a poet came,

Whose heart was filled with grief and shame,

He heard the pine’s consoling sigh,

And watched the stars parade on high.

The tree spoke not in words so clear,

But calmness washed away his fear,

He left at dawn with lighter soul,

Made broken pieces once more whole.

Now generations come and go,

Yet still the ancient pine doth grow,

Reminding all who seek its shade—

That peace is in the choices made.