Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needled boughs, with gentle sigh, Recount old tales to starry sky. A traveler, lost in thought profound, Hears whispers from the hallowed ground. They speak of seasons come and gone, Of winter’s frost and spring’s new dawn. No moral hides in nature’s verse, Its beauty lies—a universe. In quiet woods, the soul may find A tranquil, timeless peace of mind.
