Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needles murmur tales untold, Of wandering hearts and courage bold. A traveler paused one autumn night, Hearing whispers in fading light. “Who shares these secrets with the wind?” He asked the boughs, to truth inclined. The oldest tree with bark so deep, Awoke from centuries of sleep. “We keep the stories of the lost, Those who’ve paid life’s utter cost.” Through rustling boughs came echoes clear - Laughter, tear...