Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where lovers met in days long past, Their whispered vows in shadows cast. A breeze now stirs its needled boughs, Humming forgotten sacred vows. Each needle holds a tale untold— Of winter’s frost and summer’s gold. The stars above like witnesses gleam, Guardians of this timeless dream. Though centuries may drift and sway, The pine still whispers night and day.
