Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently flow, A lonely pine stands in a dream, And whispers secrets soft and low. Its branches sway with ancient grace, Each needle holds a tale untold, Of passing years and time’s slow pace, And legends from the winters old. The wind composes melodies Through needled boughs that sigh and sing, While stars observe from distant seas The stories that the pines still bring. No human ear has heard them whole, These murmurs from the forest d...
