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 at eventide

Where shadow and the breezes glide.

He heard a voice like rustling deep

That stirred long-forgotten sleep.

“Three hundred years have I stood here,

Watching seasons disappear.

Each ring within my trunk holds fast

The echoes of the ages past.”

The wind through branches softly hummed

Of battles lost and kings succumbed,

Of lovers’ vows in spring’s embrace,

Of sorrow’s touch on every face.

The man sat till the dawn’s first light,

Hearing stories through the night.

When morning came, he rose to see

Not just a tree, but history.

Now when he walks through city streets,

The ancient rhythm still repeats.

For every pine that stands so tall

Guards memories for one and all.