In the symphony of rustling leaves, do the stars whisper their secrets? The ancient ones perch upon the branches, trembling with truths unwritten.
When the moonlights dance between boughs, do they weave tales of galaxies lost in the fog?
Embedded in the core of each oak is a celestial echo. A paradox: the quiet speaks louder.
Who speaks the language of growth? Each ring a syllable, every node a word too sacred for the untrained ear.
What do the celestial bodies say when the forest holds its breath? A silent query lost in mineral songs.