Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself briefly allows. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue, To hear what only pines construe. Of lovers’ vows in spring’s embrace, And winter’s frost on nature’s face. Each needle holds a story deep, Guardian of secrets forests keep. Though winds may change and seasons turn, The pine’s wise lessons still discern. Now rest your heart and listen well, To what these woo...
