Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, And timeless vows the wind allows. A traveler paused in still delight, To hear the forest speak at night. Each needle held a story’s grace, Of seasons passed and time’s slow pace. No moral hides in nature’s art, Just quiet peace for weary heart. The pines still share their gentle lore— As they have done for years before.
