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 lovers’ vows in seasons past, Of friendships forged that ever last. The wind carries each sylvan word, Like songs of some far-distant bird. Till dawn arrives with gentle hand, To still this voice across the land. Yet in the heart, the echo stays— The forest’s wisdom throu...
