Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone deer treads on frosted leaves, While distant memory slowly weaves. The pines whisper tales of ancient days, Of lovers parted by autumn’s haze, Their promises carved on bark now old, A story time would never hold. Yet in the wind that sweeps the hill, Two voices linger, gentle still— Though seasons turn and years may pass, Some echoes in the pines amass.
