Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play, Now but a memory passed away. Its needles murmur tales untold Of lovers’ vows and warriors bold, Of seasons turned and years gone by Beneath the same unwavering sky. A traveler rests against its bark, Hearing echoes in the dark— Not just of wind, but timeless sighs That drift where all forgotten lies. Yet in this quiet, truths take root: Though mortal footsteps stay pursuit, The pine ...
