Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the starry streams While nightingales sing in moonbeams. A traveler rests against its bark, Hearing tales from light to dark. Of mountains high and meadows stark, And larks that greet the morning lark. The wind composes melodies Through rustling leaves and swaying trees, Carrying secrets on the breeze Across the lakes and seven seas. Each needle holds a drop of dew, Reflecting skies of endless bl...
