Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recalls a stream Of memories from ages past— When laughter in its boughs was cast. A traveler once, with weary soul, Found here a goal to make him whole. He carved his name upon the bark, And lingered till the night grew dark. The stars above like diamonds shone, As whispers through the pine trees blown Told tales of love and lost regrets, Of sunlit days and silhouettes. Now centuries have turned to dust, Yet in the wind remains a trust— Th...
