Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine recounts a dream

Of whispered tales through rustling boughs

That time itself cannot arouse.

A traveler paused one autumn night

To rest within its dappled light,

And heard the tree in murmured verse

Unfold a story universe.

Of lovers’ vows in spring’s embrace,

Of winter’s solitary grace,

Of seasons turning like a page

On history’s eternal stage.

The wind became a haunting flute,

The stars above stood mute, acute,

As centuries in whispers passed

Through needled branches holding fast.

Now wanderers who pause to hear

May find their sorrows disappear

Into the pine’s enduring song—

A truth that makes the spirit strong.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient pine recounts a dream

Of whispered tales through rustling boughs

That time itself cannot arouse.

A traveler paused one autumn night

To rest within its dappled light,

And heard the tree in murmured verse

Unfold a story universe.

Of lovers’ vows in spring’s embrace,

Of winter’s solitary grace,

Of seasons turning like a page

On history’s eternal stage.

The wind became a haunting flute,

The stars above stood mute, acute,

As centuries in whispers passed

Through needled branches holding fast.

Now wanderers who pause to hear

May find their sorrows disappear

Into the pine’s enduring song—

A truth that makes the spirit strong.