Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently flow, A lonely pine begins to dream Of ancient winds that long to blow. Its needles tremble in the night, Recalling days of sunlit grace, When eagles soared in golden light And shadows danced across this place. The seasons turn, the years drift by, Yet rooted deep in stony ground, It watches stars traverse the sky And listens to the world’s faint sound. A testament to time’s slow art, It stands through storm and winter’s chill— ...
