Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pinewood tells a dream.

Its needles trace on forest floor

What time and memory restore.

A traveler paused at eventide

Where shadow and the breezes glide.

He heard a voice like rustling deep

That stirred long-forgotten sleep.

“Three hundred years have I stood tall

Through summer sun and winter squall.

I’ve seen dynasties rise and fade

Beneath my eternal green shade.”

The wind then sang through branches high

A lullaby to earth and sky.

It spoke of love that trees recall

And how all things return to fall.

Now wanderers who pass this way

At the closing of the day

Still hear the pines’ soft murmured rhyme—

The slow, sweet poetry of time.