Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time itself seems to endow. A traveler paused in still repose, To hear what secrets nature shows. The wind-carved lines on bark so deep, Guard memories the forest keep. One needle fell in silent flight, To join the tapestry of night. And in that hush, the world felt new— The old pine’s wisdom, pure and true.
