Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where lovers met in spring’s embrace, And left their dreams in that still place. Now winds through needles sigh and pass, Like footsteps on the mossy grass, Telling tales of what has been - Both joy and sorrow, held within. Yet in the hush, a truth takes form: That every ending breeds a dawn, And whispered memories never fade, Beneath the gentle pine tree’s shade.
