Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient forest shares a dream. Where pines converse in rustling tongue, Of seasons past when earth was young. A traveler pauses in the night, Hearing whispers in fading light. “Roots hold the stories,” the breezes sigh, “Of sunlit days and storms gone by.” One needle falls in silent grace, To join time’s cycle in this place. The oaks recall with solemn might, How stars have witnessed endless night. Yet in these woods no truth is lost— Each crackling br...
