The pines spoke not in human tongue,
Their words woven in twilight's veil,
Echoes caught in the bitter breeze,
Sculpted from a darkness most holy.
Once the forest was home to masks,
Mournful faces carved from timber,
With hollow eyes they beheld the moon,
A witness to their forgotten laughter.
Embers lay still beneath the roots,
Lulled to slumber by the frost's hush,
While shadows linger in the realm of gloom,
Serenade of echoes untouched, unclaimed.