Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where lovers met in spring’s embrace, And left their dreams in that still place. Now needles fall with silent grace On weathered stones time can’t erase, While winds hum tales of joy and tears That echo through the passing years. A single cone drops where they stood, As night descends in solemn mood, Guarding secrets none may find— The timeless heart of forest kind.
