Beneath the moon’s soft glow, two ancient pines sway, Their branches weaving tales of yesterday. A traveler rests against their weathered bark, Hearing whispers carried through the dark. “Seek not the distant mountain’s hazy crest, But cherish this calm moment as your rest.” The wind composes poems through the needled choir, As stars ignite like verses of cosmic fire. He sleeps where roots and memories entwine, Guarded by these silent sentinels of time.