Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor, What time and memory restore. A traveler paused to hear its sigh, And saw faint legends drifting by— Of lovers’ vows in ink once penned, Now carried on the wind’s soft end. The tales are short, the words are few, Yet hold the dawn and evening dew. They speak of journeys, joy, and strife, The quiet resilience of life. So listen when the pines converse— In nature’s simple, timeless verse.
