Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the stars above, While telling tales of timeless love. A traveler rests against its bark, And listens to the forest’s arc. Of mountains old and rivers deep, Where secrets in the shadows sleep. The wind carries a melody, Of journeys past and yet to be. Each needle stirs with hushed refrain, Like gentle tears of falling rain. Though centuries may come and go, The pine still stands through sun and s...
