Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently stream, A lonely pine tree stands in grace, With whispered tales of time and space. Its branches weave the stars above, Each needle holds a secret trove— Of ancient winds and passing years, Of joy and sorrow, hopes and fears. Two travelers once paused in its shade, Their weary hearts and dreams displayed. They spoke of journeys yet untold, As autumn leaves turned red and gold. The tree listened with patient might, Bathed in the ...
