Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs That time herself forgets somehow. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue To tie a ribbon, crimson-blue, Where roots like weathered fingers twine - A silent vow to mark the sign. Now winds still carry fragments old Of stories in the needles told, While constellations slowly turn Above the moss where memories burn.
