The path is whispering again, born anew under the canopy of night.
Listen closely, and you may catch the secret sighs of the wandering firs, children lost between ages, seeking
solace in the grasp of dreams that deceive even the sky itself.
Here lies the silken tread of moons above lore, beneath murmuring shadows where ethereal hands paint echoes of yore—a tapestry woven of mist and memory. Follow if you must, barefoot against the hymn of leaves, or be bound in curiosity’s solitude.
There is a lullaby ever so tender, escaping the walls of seasons yet to bloom. It threads through like the lost heartbeats of time spilling secrets of another realm where ants and extraordinary yesterdays conjoined under traced constellations.
And in the heart of it all, remains a single trail, hidden yet unmasked, waiting for the solitary traveler—a sojourner through the echoes, unveiling aged fragrances and whispering shades forever brushed against unyielding stars.