Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play, Their echoes fading day by day. A traveler paused to hear its tale, Of seasons turning without fail, Of roots that grip the steadfast stone And weathered years it’s called its own. Though storms may bend its branches low, It shares what strength it can bestow— That even in the quietest wood, Life finds a way to whisper good.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play, Their echoes fading day by day. A traveler paused to hear its tale, Of seasons turning without fail, Of roots that grip the steadfast stone And weathered years it’s called its own. Though storms may bend its branches low, It shares what strength it can bestow— That even in the quietest wood, Life finds a way to whisper good.