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 tale, Of winter’s frost and summer’s hail. How generations came and passed, While through its boughs the north wind massed. Two lovers carved their names one night, A promise made in pale moonlight. The bark still bears that faint design, Like some forgotten sacred sign. Now listen when the pine trees sigh— They hold ...
