Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the stars above, While telling tales of timeless love. A traveler rests against its bark, And listens to the forest’s dark. The wind carries a mournful song, Of kingdoms lost and rights made wrong. Yet in the stillness, hope takes root, As wisdom springs from nature’s foot. For every needle tells a part— A story woven in the heart. So linger here where shadows play, Until the breaking of the day.
