Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares secret dreams. Its needles trace the stories deep, Where memories and mysteries sleep. A traveler paused to hear its sigh, As northern winds began to cry. The branches wove a tale so grand— Of frozen seas and jeweled land, Where foxes danced in golden light Before the falling of the night. Now only echoes still remain, Like gentle footprints in the rain. Yet those who listen close may hear The wisdom of forgotten years.
