Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recalls a stream That once did through the valley flow, Where memories like wildflowers grow. A traveler paused at eventide, Where forest shadows gently hide The path that leads to yonder hill, As nightingales their songs instill. He heard the pines whisper low, Tales of joy and tales of woe, Of lovers’ vows in spring’s embrace, And time that none can yet erase. The stars above in silence burned, While lessons from the past he learned— That...
