Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play Through golden hours of yesterday. Its needles murmur tales untold Of lovers’ vows and courage bold, Of whispered secrets on the air That time has gathered with such care. A weathered bench below now bears The weight of silent hopes and prayers, Where passing souls still pause to hear The wisdom spanning many a year. Though seasons change and years depart, The pine keeps memories in it...
