Beneath the canopy of an ancient soul, whispers dance in the languages of leaves. In every rustle, a sonnet; in every sway, a sonata. The roots, weary yet steadfast, delve into loamy infinity, seeking secrets whispered by the moon.
"When the fir speaks,” she said, “it is not mere sound but a symphony of green hearts entwined in the amber glow of dawn’s embrace.” Leaves fell, not as sorrowful partings, but as love letters, birthed anew with each season's kiss upon the forest floor.
Discover the Echoes of Silence Return to the Origin