Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood stirs from dream. Its boughs like wise men’s beards now sway, Recalling tales of yesterday. A traveler once in twilight’s hue Heard whispers in the needles’ sigh— Of lovers’ vows in morning dew, Of eagles learning how to fly. The wind through centuries has blown Secrets that only trees have known, Yet stands the grove in steadfast grace, A living chronicle of time and space.
