Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine recalls a stream

Where laughing children once would play

And chase the summer sun away.

Their voices linger in the breeze,

Rustling through the memory trees,

While stars above like witnesses keep

Vigil o’er dreams both deep and steep.

Time flows onward, swift and clear,

Yet echoes of their joy linger near—

A testament to days gone by

Beneath the same eternal sky.