Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Ancient pines whisper a forgotten dream. Their needles trace tales on the mossy ground, Where time’s quiet footsteps make no sound. A traveler pauses, breath held still, As boughs weave stories atop the hill— Of lovers who met where two paths cross, And kings who reigned, then became moss. The wind carries echoes of joy and strife, Each rustle a page from the book of life. Yet dawn will come, as it always does, Silencing pines with morning’s buzz.
