Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow, Ancient pines whisper secrets soft and low. Their branches sway in the midnight breeze, Carrying tales through centuries of trees. A traveler pauses, listening close, To hear the wisdom that the forest knows. Of mountains high and rivers deep, And promises the stars forever keep. Though years may pass and seasons turn, The pines their lessons never spurn. In every needle, truth resides— That peace is found where silence abides.
