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 starry night, Hearing whispers in fading light. They spoke of love and courage vast, Echoes from a timeless past. Through rustling boughs, a truth took form— That every soul outweathers storm, And in nature’s eternal rhyme, We find our own suspended time.