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. The wind carries a mournful tune, Of kingdoms lost beneath the moon. Yet in the stillness, hope takes flight - A shooting star burns through the night. The pine still stands through age and storm, Its roots deep-woven, strong and warm. Dawn breaks in hues of gold and rose, T...
