Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a stream Of memories etched in bark and breeze— Of winters past and rustling leaves. A traveler paused one autumn night, Weary from his journey’s plight. He heard the tree’s faint, rustling song, A tale of seasons, wise and long. It spoke of love that once took root, Of laughter, sorrow, branch and shoot. Each ring within its trunk held fast The echoes of a age gone past. The man then rose with lighter heart, Carrying the pine’s w...
