Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play Through long and sun-drenched summer days. Its needles murmur tales untold Of lovers’ vows and warriors bold, Of whispered secrets in its shade Where dreams and memories are made. Now generations come and pass Through fields of dew and swaying grass, Yet still the steadfast pine tree stands Watching o’er these timeless lands. Each bough a chapter, each root a thread Connecting to the a...
