Step softly, for you tread upon ground woven thickly with the fibers of age-old tales. Beneath the sprawling canopy, a voice whispers from the damp earth.
Riddle Measured by Time:
"In the echo of an unseen drum, I stand, a stone path that no one has charted. I bind days within my grasp, yet I am neither living nor dead. What am I?"
Sought by traders of thought, answers unknown. Steps lead to answers untouched.
The Silent Weeping:
"I am born of autumn’s breath, a tapestry black between green’s embrace. I listen, yet no sound reaches my otter-edged rim. What am I?"
Whispered words of wisdom, falling like dew upon waiting leaves.