When the sun dances through emerald blades, a voice emerges: sky-sparkled whispers. We're lost in knots and branches, time-stopped in twilight's embrace, and the elder bark hums a tune unknowable. It's a cordial waltz, where moss kingdoms flaunt just-so secrets and roots curtsy in soft flourishes.
Do you hear them? The murmurs of dew and sun-kissed echo chambers where sap runs secretive lines? Each leaf, a script, a line in the epic of whispered wisdom. To listen is to be welcomed into the sacred arbor age, thus treading lightly where echoes of ancient wood weave their eternal symphony.