Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself forgets her vows. A traveler paused in still delight, To hear the murmurs of the night. Each needle stirred with memories deep, Of promises the forests keep. Through seasons’ turn and ages’ pass, The pines still guard this hallowed mass. Their roots entwined with starry lore— Eternal, now, and evermore.
