Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needled boughs weave tales untold, Of winter’s frost and summers old. A traveler walks with weary feet, Where earth and sky in silence meet. He hears a voice upon the breeze, That hums through centuries-old trees. It speaks of kings who passed this way, Of lovers’ vows that could not stay. Of battles fought in morning dew, And hopes that like the pine needles grew. The wind composes, branch by branch, A symphony...

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needled boughs weave tales untold, Of winter’s frost and summers old. A traveler walks with weary feet, Where earth and sky in silence meet. He hears a voice upon the breeze, That hums through centuries-old trees. It speaks of kings who passed this way, Of lovers’ vows that could not stay. Of battles fought in morning dew, And hopes that like the pine needles grew. The wind composes, branch by branch, A symphony...