Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, And timeless truths it still avows. A traveler paused in still delight, To hear the murmurs of the night. Each needle stirred with stories old, Of winters harsh and summers gold. The wind sang through the branches high, A lullaby to earth and sky. No mortal pen could ever trace, That silent wisdom’s gentle grace. So listen when the pines sigh low, For secrets that the wise may ...

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, And timeless truths it still avows. A traveler paused in still delight, To hear the murmurs of the night. Each needle stirred with stories old, Of winters harsh and summers gold. The wind sang through the branches high, A lullaby to earth and sky. No mortal pen could ever trace, That silent wisdom’s gentle grace. So listen when the pines sigh low, For secrets that the wise may ...