Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself briefly allows. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue, To hear what only pines construe. Of mountains old and rivers deep, Secrets the winds in confidence keep. Each needle holds a story’s thread, Of joys expressed and tears unshed. The pine still stands through passing years, Cradling laughter, holding fears. Now who will stop and truly hear, What pines convey ...
