Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play Through long forgotten summer’s day. Its needles murmur tales untold Of lovers’ vows and warriors bold, Of whispered secrets gently passed As generations moved too fast. A traveler rests against its bark And hears the echoes in the dark - Not just the wind, but voices clear From eighty circling years drawn near. The tree still stands where memories weave Through every branch that will ...
