Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow, Ancient pines whisper tales of long ago. Their branches sway in the night’s soft breeze, Carrying secrets through rustling leaves. A traveler rests against weathered bark, Listening to echoes in the dark. Of mountains old and rivers deep, Promises the trees forever keep. Each needle holds a story untold— Of winters harsh and summers gold. They sing of time’s relentless flow, And all the things they’ve come to know. The wind composes their endless song, W...
