Should you stand still amidst the woodland's sigh,
listen to the arcane winds that cradle echoes old.
Whispered secrets known to none but trees in solemn rows,
their shadows cast stories in the language of the untold.
Over yonder, beneath the tangled boughs,
rests the forgotten path of elder whispers—
a pilgrimage once tread by those who spoke
in chants and tokens, weaving fate with breath.
You may discover, among the dew-slick blades,
the footprints of phantoms past,
a gentle imprint on the tapestry of time,
weaving their eternal sojourn in moonlit haze.
Seek not the physical, for what is lost is reborn in
every sigh of wind, every flicker of ancient light.
Follow the path to Mystic Shore or wander Rustic Hallway.
The truth is simple, wrapped in twilight mist—
a melody beckoning in a key seldom heard.