Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself briefly allows. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue, To hear what only pines construe. Of lovers’ vows in seasons past, Of friendships built forever to last. The wind carries each sylvan word, Like songs of some far-distant bird. Until the dawn begins to break, And silent grows the pine’s retelling. Each needle holds one fragment still— Of stories only forests...
