Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine recalls a stream

Where laughing children once did play

Through long-forgotten summer days.

Its needles murmur tales untold

Of lovers’ vows and warriors bold,

Of whispered secrets on the breeze

That rustle through its memory.

The seasons turn, the years take flight,

Yet standing in the tranquil night,

It keeps the stories in its bark—

A living parchment in the dark.

Each ring contains a century’s sigh,

Beneath the ever-changing sky.