Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needles murmur tales untold, Of winters harsh and summers gold. A traveler paused one starlit night, To hear the trees recite their lore so bright. They spoke of kings from ages past, Whose mighty reigns could never last. Yet through the changing tides of time, These silent sentinels still climb. Their roots run deep, their branches high, Beneath the same eternal sky. The wind then carried one low sigh - “All mo...
