// The bark whispers secrets only the moss remembers. Ancient words
// carved in the learning rings of time — a code written in knots and grooves.
It tells that before humanity spoke, before chimneys puffed dreams into the dusk,
the forest listened to the rain's sigh, captured laughter in gnarled limbs,
brushed winter's breath along hibernating roots nested deep in earth's tender pulse.
Clouds, wisps of bygone days float gentle above — ask them the song of yesteryear.
Oxygen hums — do you hear it? A conversation without beginning or way-finding map.
Every fallen leaf an epistle, every curled trunk a seasoned sage sharing forgotten histories
etched within their heartwood, translating breezy languages into easily misunderstood dialects.
The secret whispers back — left, then right, through a portal only the brave dare uncover
amid tangled briar, near babbling commitmentwood water, under sprouted sage murmur.
The map, half-forgotten, rests on
shifting glades, known whereabouts persist only through a realization of oneness, echoed through listening woodwinds.
Return again to the
unseen forest glints, where messages hidden amid grass blades beckon the curious to slow, observe, and ponder.
// In the wind, we trust. In the forest's embrace, we decrypt. And in the silence, we perceive thoughts of the ancients anew.