Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Through rustling boughs the stories flow, Of winters past and winds that blow. A traveler paused one twilight dim, Heard conifers’ enduring hymn. Their roots held tales of joy and fears, Whispered through a thousand years. No human tongue could speak so clear, Yet every bough made meaning near. The forest’s breath, a living verse, Soothed the soul of universe. He left at dawn with quieter mind, Carrying the peace he’d fo...
