Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient forest holds its dream. Where pines converse in rustling sighs Of long-lost times and starlit skies. A traveler paused to hear their tale— How winter’s breath turns fierce to frail, How roots run deep through stone and sorrow To find the hope of new tomorrow. They spoke of seasons come and gone, Of gentle dawns and storms withdrawn, Yet standing firm through changing days In silent, evergreen ways. Now who can say if trees truly speak? But hear...
