In the fibers of the winding roots, tangled and earnest, I found a breath of parchment whispers speaking
of lovers entangled unburied, their sighs congealed in dew drips of time stretching like shadows on the
horizon. When softness melted into the petals of night, and stars unraveled serenades on silk threads,
you could taste the past's fervent pulse in the wavering light.

Shadows find their dance beneath the gnarled arms of oak; they cradle unspoken vows in havens of moss.
Do you hear the echoes when dusk drifts over? They sing in the language of long-etched fingertips upon
stone. Every word fossilized, awaiting excavation, emerges vivid and romantic, carried by windblown secret
tales from lips never dried yet engraved by time’s ceaseless brush.

Forest, where forgotten heartbeats linger, leave only the skeletal fragments of passion, reassembling
the tender relics of what was and what will ever be whispered only in dreams.