Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine shares whispered dreams.

Its branches trace the stars above,

While telling tales of timeless love.

A traveler rests against its bark,

And listens to the forest’s dark.

The wind carries a mournful song,

Of kingdoms lost and rights made wrong.

Yet in the stillness, hope takes root,

As wisdom springs from nature’s boot.

For every needle tells a part—

The forest’s beat, the mountain’s heart.

So lean in close and you might hear,

The secrets that the pines hold dear.

They speak of patience, strength, and grace,

In this wild, enchanted place.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine shares whispered dreams.

Its branches trace the stars above,

While telling tales of timeless love.

A traveler rests against its bark,

And listens to the forest’s dark.

The wind carries a mournful song,

Of kingdoms lost and rights made wrong.

Yet in the stillness, hope takes root,

As wisdom springs from nature’s boot.

For every needle tells a part—

The forest’s beat, the mountain’s heart.

So lean in close and you might hear,

The secrets that the pines hold dear.

They speak of patience, strength, and grace,

In this wild, enchanted place.