In the forests where pines are thick,
a crow’s call cuts the air, sharp and quick.
Whispers drift through branches wide,
shadows twist, and creep, and hide.
The moon, like silver, stains the sky,
casting marks where shadows lie.
What stirs beneath the ancient boughs,
where darkened limbs and silence browse?
Seek the cry, both near and deep,
where the pines, their secrets keep.
In the crow’s call and the moon’s glow,
what truth awaits where shadows grow?