In the cradle of time, words spun from roots untold. Tracing wisps of breath, they wander through the echoes of a forgotten forest, where the whispers of whimsical roots lie tangled beneath the soil. Once trodden paths long left embrace the solitude, voices hushed into a chorus, a tapestry deeper than oaks can fathom.
Hollow it seems, yet brimming with a recollection, soft motes swirl amid the gentle streams of light. Where did they begin? question roots, as stones listen, patient under layers of green and quiet succulence. Each leaf unfolds like a memory tucked in sinews of wind.
We walk and stumble upon reflections, shadows casting whispers across our eyes. Remember the words not spoken, call the dreams not dreamt, beneath starlit arches of the endless embrace.
Creak of distant branches, a soft breathing mist that ripples between the air unseen, unravel stories without silhouettes. With every step awaken the echoes of the past becoming seeds of a tomorrow that waits, rooted firmly in the now.