Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through ages borne, On winds that cross the fields of corn. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue, To hear the forest’s story true. How mountains met the rushing stream, In nature’s everlasting theme. The stars above like diamonds bright, Watched over the tranquil night. Each needle stirred with memories deep, Guarding secrets the mountains keep. No moral ends this gentle rhyme, Just echoes of eternal tim...
