Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Ancient pines whisper a forgotten dream. Their needles trace tales on the breeze, Of mountain spirits and timeless seas. A traveler pauses, breath held still, As boughs share secrets old and chill. “Seek not the end,” the rustlings sigh, “For journeys bloom ‘neath open sky.” One star descends, a fleeting grace, To kiss the woods in light’s embrace. Dawn waits beyond the darkened hill— The pines keep whispering, and always will.
