Through the shadowy glades, where moonbeams weave tapestries of fern and phantom mist, the dreams wander. Starlit paths echo with the language of leaves.
Do dreams have roots? As the ancient oaks ponder heavily above, their weight a forgotten slumber, small whispers ripple through the bark and nestle in the trunk’s pulse.
When the sun dips below the horizon, a forest choir begins—a symphony played by the brass acorns and cymbals of dabbling brooks. Listen closely, for it tells the secrets of the winds.
Stars are but seeds in a heavenly canopy; some sprout into luminescent lanterns, while others lie dormant in its dark womb. The fir knows these truths well.
Escape into the labyrinth of the forest where time’s hands wither and dreams learn to speak the tongue of the ancient glen.