Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Ancient pines whisper a forgotten dream. Their needles trace tales on the night’s dark screen, Of mountain spirits, silent and unseen. A traveler pauses, breath held in the air, Hearing echoes of a world beyond care. The wind composes verses old and deep, As stars above their timeless vigil keep. No moral hides in this forest’s gentle sigh, Just peace that lingers as the world drifts by.