Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself forgets her vows. A traveler paused in still delight, To hear the murmurs of the night. Each needle stirred with secrets deep, That only stars and mountains keep. He lingered till the dawn’s first hue, And found old wisdom fresh and new. Not all that speaks must use a voice— Some truths make silence their best choice.
