Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the stars above, While telling tales of timeless love. A traveler rests against its bark, And listens to the forest’s arc. Of mountains high and rivers deep, Secrets that the wilds will keep. The wind carries a faint refrain, Like gentle, falling summer rain. It speaks of journeys yet untold, In verses centuries old. Through seasons’ turn and years that pass, The pine remains on mossy grass. A si...
