Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pinewood tells a dream.

Its needles trace on forest floor,

What time and wind have written before.

A traveler paused to hear its song—

A tale of seasons, short and long.

Of winter’s hush and summer’s breath,

Of life that springs from silent death.

The boughs like wise men slowly sway,

Whispering truths that won’t fade away.

They speak of patience, deep and strong,

To all who listen all night long.

No need to rush or fear the end,

For every broken branch will mend.

In nature’s slow, unwritten scroll,

The quiet heart finds making whole.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pinewood tells a dream.

Its needles trace on forest floor,

What time and wind have written before.

A traveler paused to hear its song—

A tale of seasons, short and long.

Of winter’s hush and summer’s breath,

Of life that springs from silent death.

The boughs like wise men slowly sway,

Whispering truths that won’t fade away.

They speak of patience, deep and strong,

To all who listen all night long.

No need to rush or fear the end,

For every broken branch will mend.

In nature’s slow, unwritten scroll,

The quiet heart finds making whole.