Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the stars above, While telling tales of timeless love. A traveler rests against its bark, And listens to the forest’s dark. He hears the echoes of the past, Where memories and shadows cast. The wind weaves through the needled green, A living, breathing, sacred scene. Each rustle holds a story true, Of skies both gray and morning blue. Though dawn will break and he must go, The whispered wisdom st...
