In the whispered language of rustling leaves, dreams weave their encryption. Warding shadows cast stories in the silver bark of every sentinel.
Vines—interlaced fingers of the old forest—hold hands with the forgotten lore as roots breathe stories into the soil, entirely asleep.
Look close to the grain, let the timber teach what echoes did not dare say. Between the spectrum of sunlight sifting through canopy, there lies the message of forgotten whirs.
Dance with the whispers through the dew-kissed glades—suspense mingles with affections, signatures hacked in twigs and petals.
Imagine idling by, lost in contemplation... the forest forging letters in its own mortality wisdom, a script written never meant to be read nor decrypted.
Sing to the Trees