Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles weave a lullaby, As wandering breezes gently sigh. A traveler paused to hear its tale— Of mountain mist and winding trail, Where wisdom flows like hidden streams Through whispered sighs and silent dreams. One need not seek for distant lore; Just listen where tall timbers soar. For in each rustle, faint and deep, The forest’s timeless secrets keep.
