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 light divide.

He heard a murmur, low and deep—

The rhythm that the mountains keep.

One bough, like an old prophet’s hand,

Pointed toward some unseen land.

It spoke of seasons come and gone,

Of steadfast roots in soil alone.

No human language shaped the sound,

Yet understanding bloomed around.

The wind through branches, wise and slow,

Taught him what he had yet to know.

He left when dawn began to rise

With quiet wonder in his eyes.

The pines still whisper, as before,

Their timeless truth to those who pause.