Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently flow, A lonely pine stands by the stream, Whispering tales of long ago. It speaks of travelers’ weary feet, Of lovers’ vows in twilight made, Of seasons changing, slow and sweet, Beneath its everlasting shade. The wind composes melodies Through needled branches, green and deep, While stars observe from distant skies The secrets that the pine trees keep. Yet in its hushed and timeless voice, One truth remains through sun and rain...
