In the solemn corridors where whispers dissolve into moss, every shadow weaves a tale untold,
solemn truths entangled within the splinters of each tree, awaiting revelation beneath the starless sky.
What eternal song do those ancient trunks harbor
as the wind carves secrets into its verdant embrace?
Each knot, each vein speaks in a language few dare to understand,
echoing the voiceless murmurings of Gaia’s gentle touch.
Therein lies the resonance of forgotten ages,
anchored not by time but by silence, bewitched and profound,
for in silence resides the most chaotic symphony of all.
If silence be silver, then wisdom is wrought of wood,
a tapestry sewn with threads of a thousand unconscious wishes.
Listen close, and you may hear the ghosts of thoughts yet to be born,
transient desires fluttering like fireflies upon the dusk of memory.