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 silent sage in woodland’s heart,

Weaving wisdom through its art.

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 silent sage in woodland’s heart,

Weaving wisdom through its art.