Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pinewood tells a dream.

Its needles trace on forest floor,

What time and wind have laid before.

A traveler paused to hear its song,

Of seasons short and winters long.

Each branch a verse, each root a rhyme,

Echoing through the vaults of time.

No moral hides in needled shade,

Just quiet truths in green arrayed.

The pines still whisper, low and deep,

To guard the secrets forests keep.