Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pinewood stirs with dreams.

Its needled boughs, in whispers low,

Recount the tales of long ago.

A traveler paused one autumn night,

His path embraced by gentle light.

He heard the murmurs in the air—

A symphony of earth’s own prayer.

Each rustle spoke of joy and fears,

Of passing storms and dried-up tears.

The pines remembered kings and slaves,

The silent strength of growing graves.

He left at dawn, a changed man’s heart,

Carrying the woods’ immortal art.

Now when he walks through city’s sound,

He hears those whispers all around.