Beneath the moon's soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor, What time and wind have laid before. A traveler paused to hear its song— A tale of seasons, short and long. Of winter's hush and spring's new birth, The deepest truths of all the earth. He left the woods at break of day, And carried one small branch away. Wherever footsteps next may fall, That whisper stays through rise and fall.

Beneath the moon's soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor, What time and wind have laid before. A traveler paused to hear its song— A tale of seasons, short and long. Of winter's hush and spring's new birth, The deepest truths of all the earth. He left the woods at break of day, And carried one small branch away. Wherever footsteps next may fall, That whisper stays through rise and fall.