Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone pine whispers ancient tales Of passing winds and fading sails. Once travelers rested in its shade, With dreams of conquests yet unmade, Their laughter etched in bark and stone, Now memories the pine owns alone. Yet in its boughs, a promise stays— That wisdom grows through endless days, And though the world may shift and turn, The fire of hope still burns.
