Beneath the moon’s soft silver glow, Two ancient pine trees sway and grow. Their branches weave a timeless tale, Of whispered secrets on the gale. One tree recalls the summer’s breeze, The rustling songs among the leaves. The other speaks of winter’s chill, When snow draped slopes so hushed and still. They’ve witnessed seasons come and pass, Through sunlit days and storms amass. Yet rooted deep in mountain’s crest, They share the earth in silent rest. A traveler paused at eventide, To hear th...
