Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the stars above, With tales of hope, of life, of love. A traveler rests against its bark, And listens to the forest’s dark. The wind carries a timeless song— Of journeys short and pathways long. Though seasons change and years may pass, The pine still stands in mountain grass. Its roots run deep, its voice stays true, A steadfast friend to morning dew. So pause awhile and you might hear, The wisd...