Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood stirs with dreams. Its needled boughs in whispers trade Old secrets in the twilight’s shade. A traveler paused his weary pace To feel the forest’s cool embrace. He heard a murmur, low and deep— The memories that the pines keep. Of lovers’ vows in spring’s warm light, Of lonely souls who passed by night, Of seasons turning, year by year, Each story captured, crystal-clear. The wind arose with gentle sigh, The branches waved a last goodb...
