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 that makes the heart entranced.

Each tree a verse, each root a rhyme,

Echoing beyond the bounds of time.

So listen when the pines whisper low,

For they remember all we need to know.

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 that makes the heart entranced.

Each tree a verse, each root a rhyme,

Echoing beyond the bounds of time.

So listen when the pines whisper low,

For they remember all we need to know.