Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient oak recalls a stream

That once did through the valley wind,

Carving stories in the mind.

A traveler paused at eventide,

Where shadow and the light collide,

He heard the pines in whispered speech—

Of journeys beyond mortal reach.

They spoke of love that would not fade,

Of choices made and promises paid,

Each needle trembling in the breeze

Shared secrets among the trees.

Now few still walk that forest deep,

Where memories and dreams both sleep,

But if you listen, you might hear

The echo of a vanished year.