Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needled boughs, with whispered sighs, Tell tales of centuries gone by. A traveler walks the mossy trail, Where shadows dance and night winds wail. He hears a voice among the trees— A gentle murmur on the breeze. It speaks of love and lost regrets, Of sunlit days and starry nets. The pines remember all they’ve seen: The wars, the peace, what might have been. He rests upon a root-woven seat, As wisdom flows, profo...
