Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself briefly allows. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue, To hear what only pines construe. Of lovers’ vows in spring’s embrace, And winter’s solitary grace. The wind carries forgotten songs, Where every note to memory belongs. Stars above in silence keep, Watch o’er promises buried deep. Now dawn approaches, pale and clear, The pine falls silent, drawing near. Its...
