The ancient trees speak softly; their whispers encrypted in curling branches and fallen leaves. In modern society, we forget: the true prophets wear bark armor and speak in fibrous tongues. Oh, the irony! When they call, promising enlightenment by way of spindly roots, do we listen? Moss-coated branches argue, yet we ponder only the aesthetic of their coniferous wisdom. Awaiting verdicts from silently growing oaks, we forget the roots whisper beneath our feet—a secret untranslatable by bureaucrats. Declarations, inscribed in sap and husked shouts at breezy midnight, remind us ironically that truth is written not in books, but in trunks whispering tales of forgotten glades. 01110100 01101000 01110010 01101111 01110101 01100111 01101000 01110010 01101111 01111011 01100111 01101100 01100010