Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine recounts a dream.

Of whispered tales through rustling boughs,

Where time herself briefly allows.

A traveler paused in twilight’s hue,

To hear what only pines construe.

Of mountains old and rivers deep,

Secrets the winds in confidence keep.

Two hundred years of sun and storm,

In every needle, memories warm.

The crane that came at winter’s fall,

The child who leaned against its tall.

Now stars emerge like scattered pearls,

As pine and man exchange their worlds.

The journey calls, the path extends,

But in the heart, the whisper blends.

For in these woods where shadows play,

The pines have things they’ll never say.

Yet in their scent upon the air,

Linger stories beyond compare.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine recounts a dream.

Of whispered tales through rustling boughs,

Where time herself briefly allows.

A traveler paused in twilight’s hue,

To hear what only pines construe.

Of mountains old and rivers deep,

Secrets the winds in confidence keep.

Two hundred years of sun and storm,

In every needle, memories warm.

The crane that came at winter’s fall,

The child who leaned against its tall.

Now stars emerge like scattered pearls,

As pine and man exchange their worlds.

The journey calls, the path extends,

But in the heart, the whisper blends.

For in these woods where shadows play,

The pines have things they’ll never say.

Yet in their scent upon the air,

Linger stories beyond compare.