Whispers cascade, woven roots beneath loamy graves. I speak to the trees in their tongue, cryptic and ancient. Gnarled fingers stretch, tracing paths not walked but remembered in bark's soft sigh.
Listeners, the stones hum back in windswept syllables, to no ears but those who hear. Celerity of thought, a labyrinth of veined leaves. The forest nods in patterns, encrypted in glades long hidden.
Observe, the dance of shadow on stone, primordial rhythms. A language lost, saved with every rustling branch, every whispered secret lost to wind. The Caverns hold more than echoes; they cradle the language of silence spoken by teeming woods.
Transcribe the silence, unravel the melody woven in chrysalis threads.
— Entitlement of green, the bark-song persists, and we listen.
Seek deeper beyond the echoes or follow the murmured trails to find the secret lives of stones.