Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recalls a stream Where laughing children once would play And chase the summer light away. A traveler paused with weary feet, Heard whispers in the twilight sweet— The wind through needles hummed a tune Of forgotten kings and monsoons. One pine cone fell upon the moss, A tiny treasure, lightly tossed, Containing worlds yet to unfold: Stories older than the cold. So rest your head and listen close, For nature guards what we miss most— Each bo...