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 keep whispering their tale

On every breath of mountain gale.

They speak of seasons come and gone,

Of morning dew and winter’s dawn.

The stars above begin to gleam

And mingle with the wooded dream.

At first light, when the travelers rise,

There’s newfound wisdom in their eyes.

The pines have shared their olden lore -

And given them something more.