Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the starry streams While nightingales sing in moonbeams. A traveler rests against its bark, Hearing tales from the light and dark. Of seasons passed and larks that hark The coming dawn’s first tender spark. The wind composes melodies Through needled symphonies in the breeze, Carrying secrets none can seize— Both sorrows sweet and memories. Thus stands the tree through age and time, A living verse...
