Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow,

Ancient pines whisper tales of long ago.

A traveler pauses on the mossy stone path,

Hearing echoes of joy, sorrow, and wrath.

Their branches weave stories in the crisp night air—

Of lovers’ vows and warriors’ final prayers.

Each rustling needle holds a secret kept,

While the world below lies peacefully asleep.

A distant bell tolls from the temple hill,

As dewdrops form on windowsills gone still.

The pines stand witness through the turning years,

Guarding timeless dreams against all fears.

Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow,

Ancient pines whisper tales of long ago.

A traveler pauses on the mossy stone path,

Hearing echoes of joy, sorrow, and wrath.

Their branches weave stories in the crisp night air—

Of lovers’ vows and warriors’ final prayers.

Each rustling needle holds a secret kept,

While the world below lies peacefully asleep.

A distant bell tolls from the temple hill,

As dewdrops form on windowsills gone still.

The pines stand witness through the turning years,

Guarding timeless dreams against all fears.