Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needles murmur tales untold, Of winters harsh and summers gold. A traveler paused one starlit night, Hearing whispers in fading light. They spoke of love, of loss, of time, In rhythms matching nature’s rhyme. One pine recalled a princess’ tear, Another sang of vanished years. The wind carried their stories far, Beyond the mountains, past each star. The wanderer left at break of day, With forest secrets tucked aw...
