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 to those sincere?

In every breeze that stirs their green,

Lives all the world they’ve ever seen.

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 to those sincere?

In every breeze that stirs their green,

Lives all the world they’ve ever seen.