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 found designed,

By nature’s old and wordless art—

A pinecone kept within his heart.