Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor What time and memory restore. A traveler paused at eventide To hear what secrets there abide. Each bough that swayed in mountain air Sang chapters of a world more fair. Through seasons’ turn and ages’ flight, It guards the stories of the night— How stars were born in crystal streams, And hope took root in barren dreams. Now rest your heart where shadows play, And let the pines your cares...
