Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles weave a lullaby, As wandering breezes sigh and stream. A traveler pauses in the night, His lantern casting fragile light. He hears the whispers of the trees— Of timeless grace and nature’s might. They speak of seasons come and gone, Of steadfast roots deep in the stone. No mortal words, yet understood— A truth in silence gently sown. He leaves the woods at break of day, His soul renewed along the way. The pin...
