Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recalls a stream Of memories from days long past, Where joy and sorrow both were cast. A traveler with weary feet Found solace in this cool retreat, And carved his name upon the bark - A fleeting, yet eternal mark. The seasons turned, the years flew by, As clouds would drift across the sky. The carving weathered, faint yet true, Like old regrets we hold onto. Yet in the stillness, pines would sigh Their whispered lullaby, Telling tales of t...
