In the verdant cathedral, where light splinters through leaves,
ancient tongues murmur in the rustling of bark and leaf.
A cipher of growth, the language of sylvan guardians,
unravel with each sigh of wind among timbered sentinels.
Roots entwined—echoes of secrets unheard.
Leaves shed whispers, a pact only birds remember.
Time curves through the forest, a spiral ancient and aloof.
Part the memories, speak in the tongue of coniferous dreams.
There lies the path, veiled in emerald shadows,
a corridor woven from ivy thoughts, hushed sighs.
Follow where the theosophical dew rests,
upon the lattice work of the dawn’s gentle embrace.