Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares secret dreams. Its needles trace the passing years, In whispered songs that calm all fears. A traveler rests against its bark, And hears the forest after dark. The stars above in patterns weave, As nightbirds in the branches grieve. One falling cone upon the ground, Where future forests may be found. The wind carries a timeless sigh - “All things must change, yet none truly die.”
