Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood stirs from dream. Its boughs like wise men’s arms extend, Where feathered minstrels notes suspend. A brook through mossy stones does weave Its liquid song at evening’s eve, While fireflies with lanterns gold Dance tales that never grow too old. Here time itself forgets to flow, Where roots drink deep what stars bestow. Each needle holds a whispered theme - The forest’s everlasting dream.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood stirs from dream. Its boughs like wise men’s arms extend, Where feathered minstrels notes suspend. A brook through mossy stones does weave Its liquid song at evening’s eve, While fireflies with lanterns gold Dance tales that never grow too old. Here time itself forgets to flow, Where roots drink deep what stars bestow. Each needle holds a whispered theme - The forest’s everlasting dream.