Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor, What time and memory restore. A traveler paused at eventide, Where shadows and the breezes hide. He heard a voice among the boughs, That spoke of long-forgotten vows. Of lovers who in springtime met, Whose hearts in harmony were set. They carved their names upon the bark, A promise shining through the dark. But seasons turned and years flew fast, The carved initials still would last. Th...
