Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Ancient pines whisper a forgotten dream. Their needles trace tales on the mossy ground, Where time’s quiet footsteps make no sound. A traveler pauses, breath held still, As boughs weave stories no pen could ever fill. They speak of dynasties risen and fallen low, Of lovers’ vows whispered long ago. The wind carries echoes of laughter and tears, Through a thousand seasons of hopes and fears. Yet in this grove, all remains serene— A timeless realm, forever ...
