Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares secret dreams. Its needles trace the stories old, Of lovers’ vows and courage bold. A traveler rests against its bark, Hears whispers fading into dark. The wind composes melodies, That drift through sleeping centuries. Each branch a pen, each leaf a page, Recording time from age to age. The constellations slowly turn, While roots drink deep from memory’s urn. Dawn breaks in hues of gold and rose, The pine keeps watch as daylight gro...
