Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow,

Ancient pines whisper tales of long ago.

A traveler pauses on the mossy stone path,

Hearing echoes of laughter and sorrow alike.

One story tells of a painter who tried

To capture the soul of the mountain’s pride.

With brushstrokes of twilight and dawn’s first light,

He vanished one night—became part of the sight.

Now wind through the needles hums his unfinished song,

A melody where all times belong.

The traveler smiles and continues on,

Carrying the tale where new dawns are drawn.

Beneath the silver moon’s gentle glow,

Ancient pines whisper tales of long ago.

A traveler pauses on the mossy stone path,

Hearing echoes of laughter and sorrow alike.

One story tells of a painter who tried

To capture the soul of the mountain’s pride.

With brushstrokes of twilight and dawn’s first light,

He vanished one night—became part of the sight.

Now wind through the needles hums his unfinished song,

A melody where all times belong.

The traveler smiles and continues on,

Carrying the tale where new dawns are drawn.