Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow, Ancient pines weave tales of long ago. Their branches sway with secrets deep, While weary wanderers find rest in sleep. A distant stream hums a lullaby rhyme, Echoing through the corridors of time. Stars blink slowly in velvet night, Guarding dreams till morning light. No mighty kings nor battles grand, Just quiet magic across the land— Where roots and memories intertwine, In this sacred, forest shrine.