Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles weave a lullaby, As stars observe from on high. A traveler rests against the bark, Hearing whispers in the dark— Tales of seasons come and gone, Of winter’s frost and spring’s new dawn. The wind carries a mournful tune, Of lovers parted ‘neath the moon. Yet in the boughs, hope finds its voice: “Rejoice, sad heart—rejoice, rejoice!” For every sigh the pine trees bear, They answer with resilient air. Their root...
