Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time itself seems to pause. A traveler rests against its bark, Listening to the forest’s dark, While stars above like diamonds gleam, Weaving threads through midnight’s seam. The wind carries a lullaby, As cloud-ships drift across the sky. In nature’s arms, all worries cease, And every soul may find its peace.
