Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a dream Of whispered tales on passing breeze That rustle through its memory. Two travelers once paused in its shade And promises of friendship made, Their laughter echoing through the wood Where generations since have stood. Though seasons turned and years flew fast, The pine remembers shadows cast By those who shared their hopes and fears Beneath its boughs through passing years. Now when the wind begins to sigh, You’ll hear their...
