Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

Where silent waters gently stream,

A lonely pine tree stands in thought,

With memories time has dearly bought.

Its needles murmur ancient tales

Of passing winds and sun-kissed gales,

Of birds that perched in seasons past,

Of shadows that the moon has cast.

One night a traveler paused to rest,

Against its trunk his head addressed,

And in the rustling boughs he heard

A wisdom deeper than his word:

“The strongest roots grow unseen deep,

While weary souls may learn to sleep,

But standing tall through storm and strife,

Is how we cultivate our life.”

At dawn he rose with clearer sight,

The tree had bathed him in its light,

And carried through the coming day

What those wise branches had to say.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

Where silent waters gently stream,

A lonely pine tree stands in thought,

With memories time has dearly bought.

Its needles murmur ancient tales

Of passing winds and sun-kissed gales,

Of birds that perched in seasons past,

Of shadows that the moon has cast.

One night a traveler paused to rest,

Against its trunk his head addressed,

And in the rustling boughs he heard

A wisdom deeper than his word:

“The strongest roots grow unseen deep,

While weary souls may learn to sleep,

But standing tall through storm and strife,

Is how we cultivate our life.”

At dawn he rose with clearer sight,

The tree had bathed him in its light,

And carried through the coming day

What those wise branches had to say.