Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play On some long-vanished summer’s day. Its needles murmur tales untold Of lovers brave and heroes bold, Of whispered dreams in twilight’s hue That morning’s light would make anew. Each ring within its weathered core Holds memories of countless lore. The wind now sings through branches high A lullaby to time gone by.
