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—

That those who pause to truly hear

May find their path become more clear.

The oak still stands, the stream still flows,

And wisdom in the forest grows.