Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles weave a lullaby That murmurs as the breezes sigh. Two travelers on a dusty road Have laid aside their heavy load. They rest their heads on mossy stone, No longer feeling quite alone. The older one with weathered face Recalls a long-forgotten place. “The trees,” he says, “remember all - The springtime bloom, the autumn fall.” The younger listens, wide-eyed, still, As night descends upon the hill. The pines kee...
