Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine recounts a dream.

Of whispered tales through rustling boughs,

Where time itself seems to pause.

A traveler rests against its bark,

Hearing stories in the dark.

Of dynasties risen and fallen low,

Like autumn leaves in winds that blow.

Two centuries of sun and rain,

Joy and sorrow, loss and gain.

Yet standing tall with quiet grace,

A living chronicle of time and space.

The stars above blink in reply,

As night breeze sings a lullaby.

In this sacred grove we find,

The silent wisdom of mankind.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine recounts a dream.

Of whispered tales through rustling boughs,

Where time itself seems to pause.

A traveler rests against its bark,

Hearing stories in the dark.

Of dynasties risen and fallen low,

Like autumn leaves in winds that blow.

Two centuries of sun and rain,

Joy and sorrow, loss and gain.

Yet standing tall with quiet grace,

A living chronicle of time and space.

The stars above blink in reply,

As night breeze sings a lullaby.

In this sacred grove we find,

The silent wisdom of mankind.