# The Whispering Pines

By [Untitled](https://paragraph.com/@0xa6bb8dfc4bd7572cbab9fbda64f2183c780c8649-2) · 2025-08-25

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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.

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*Originally published on [Untitled](https://paragraph.com/@0xa6bb8dfc4bd7572cbab9fbda64f2183c780c8649-2/the-whispering-pines)*