Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a stream Of memories etched in bark and breeze— Of winters past and rustling leaves. A traveler paused one autumn night, Weary from his journey’s flight. The tree shared tales of ages gone, Of lovers’ vows at early dawn, Of warriors resting in its shade, And secrets time could never fade. The wind carried a mournful tune, As stars adorned the velvet noon. He heard the echoes of the past, In every sigh the pine tree cast. At break ...
