Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow, Ancient pines whisper secrets soft and low. Their needles trace tales on the night’s dark veil, Of wandering winds and mountains pale. A traveler pauses, his heart held still, Listening to memories time cannot kill. The forest breathes with a timeless grace, Each rustling branch a sacred space. Stars blink slowly through the towering green, Guardians of stories heard but unseen. In this hushed world where past and present blend, The journey finds not an ...
