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 wanderer continued on his way,

But carried something from that day:

The wisdom of the rooted heart

That knows each soul plays but a part

In nature’s everlasting rhyme,

Beyond the bounds of space and time.