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 arc. Of mountains old and rivers deep, Secrets the waking world can’t keep. The wind carries a mournful tune, Of seasons passed and changing moon. Yet in each needle, green persists, As nature’s quiet truth insists. Dawn breaks in hues of gold and rose, The pine still standing, as...
