Beyond the whispers of bark, where dreams of saplings intertwine with mossy edges, there lies a bending: a gentle curve in the journey of evergreen consciousness. Waterslap words whispered into soil, encrypted whispers decoded through cracking barks, telling tales of wind-symphonies and shadow-strums.
Here, where light comets cascade through leaf-holes, one finds the manuscript of roots: a language that climbs, descends, and circles in orchestral tendencies. Divines of fir translate in knot-script, scribes of ivy calligraphing memories into the night-air.
Echoes of Moss