Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor What time and memory restore. A traveler paused at eventide Where shadow and the light divide. He heard the murmurs, low and deep— The promises the mountains keep. Each gust that stirred the highest bough Carried a forgotten vow, Of lovers parting by the stream In some long-lost, moon-bright dream. The wind sang tales of joy and fears, Of laughter turning into tears, Of seasons circling ...
