Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine forest stands in silent dream. Its needles weave tales of ages past, Where secrets in the rustling breeze are cast. A traveler once wandered through its deep, Where shadows and memories softly sleep. He heard a whisper, faint and low, A melody from long ago. It sang of love, of loss, of grace, Of time that none can ever chase. The stars above blinked in reply, As centuries continued drifting by. Now every soul who walks this way Hears the ...
