Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where lovers met in seasons past— Their promises meant first to last. A whispered vow on summer’s breeze, Now rustling through the needled trees, Tells of a war that drew him far Beneath a cold and distant star. She waits each dusk in robes of white, Her lantern piercing through the night, While needles weave through time’s design— Her patience spun like forest vine. Yet seasons turn with gentle grace; The world still find...
