Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play Through golden hours of yesterday. Its branches sway with secrets deep, Guarding promises lovers keep— A ribbon tied in ages past, Whose vibrant hues were meant to last. Now wanderers pause in twilight’s hue To hear the wind’s old story true: How roots entwine with stars above, And sorrow melts in boundless love.
