Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play Through long forgotten summer days. A traveler paused to hear its sigh, And saw a teardrop in its eye. The tree then whispered tales of yore— Of kings who walked this path before, Of lovers’ vows in twilight made, Of memories that never fade. It spoke of seasons coming, going, Secrets only old trees knowing. The wind carried the pine’s low song, A melody that lasts so long. The wandere...
