Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in dream. Its needled boughs, with wisdom old, Hold stories that the winds have told. A traveler walked this path alone, Hearing the pines’ enduring moan. They spoke of seasons come and gone, Of timeless dusk and endless dawn. No need for words to understand The quiet magic of this land. In nature’s calm, the soul finds rest— With each deep breath, we are blessed.
