Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through ages borne, On winds that dance from dusk till morn. A traveler paused one starry night, To rest within its guarding sight. The branches swayed with secrets deep, As constellations vigil keep. He heard the echoes of old years— Of joy and sorrow, hopes and fears. Each needle held a story’s thread, Of lives once lived, of words once said. The forest breathed in hushed reply, While distant stars li...
