Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor What time and memory restore. A traveler paused at eventide Where shadow and the light divide. He heard a voice among the boughs— Not wind, but words from long-lost vows. “Who walks where kings and poets trod? The pines keep secrets ‘neath the sod. The stars above are witnesses To countless joys and deep distress.” He sat upon a mossy stone As twilight’s purple hues had grown, And listen...
