Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself briefly allows. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue, To hear what ancient forests knew. The wind-carved lines on bark and cone, Spoke of kingdoms lost to stone. Yet in its needles’ gentle sigh, Lay truths no history can deny. That roots run deeper than despair, And resilience waits in mountain air. Now stars above in patterns weave, The lessons that the pines ...
