Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play Through long forgotten summer days. Its needles murmur tales of old— Of lovers’ vows in courage told, Of whispered secrets on the air, Of burdens that the trees still bear. A traveler pauses in the night To hear this arboreal delight, And finds within the rustling sound New hope upon this hallowed ground. The wind composes, branch by branch, A symphony that will enhance The weary soul ...
