Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Ancient pines whisper a forgotten dream. Their needles trace tales on the breeze, Of mountain spirits and timeless seas. A traveler pauses, breath held still, As boughs share secrets old and real— How stars once danced to earth below, And learned from roots how deeply to grow. Now dawn approaches, gentle, wise, With gold now bleeding through the skies. The pines fall silent, guard their lore, Till night returns to ask once more.
