Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Two ancient pines share whispered dreams. Their branches weave through misted air, Exchanging tales of earth’s repair. One speaks of mountains, old and deep, Where secrets in the stone still sleep. The other tells of passing years— Of joy, of solitude, of tears. A traveler pauses on the trail, Hears their quiet forest tale. For just a breath, the world feels still, Bound by the pines’ enduring will. Though winds may shift and seasons turn, These sentinels...
