In the valley where echoes paint the horizon,
there lies a tale spun by the ancient glade.
A stream of murmurs unveils a crisp cipher:
*σeαnιb οvni an ηys icidnnvetp*
Speak softly, unto the twilight sage.
Underneath the sibilance of verdant boughs,
the elders chant in forgotten tongues
decipher the sky,
where clouds knit stories and dreams dissolve into ink.
A compass crafted from moonlight spins silently,
guiding footsteps lost in night's weave.
Navigate by the stars' breath:
forbidden, dear nova not epic.
Follow, if you dare, to Glimmering Trails
Or rest beneath the ancient oak's ward in Murmured Tales.
Wisdom drifts like autumn leaves upon the mind’s river,
ever falling, ever spinning, ever serene.