There under the intertwining gods of gnarl and weave,
their tangled whispers tell tales of sky children –
daughters of wind, custodians of unspoken whisper.
An oak sighs, relaying lost letters scratched into the bark –
human hands tracing circles, haloed eyes in starlight,
etched prayers to antiquity soaked into earth's roots,
binding ink with sap in timeless amalgam.
The stillness is a tapestry unspooling threads
from futures unfound, woven by ancients lost in mist.
Perennial voices in dusk sing as lullabies forgotten,
pledges anew to unfold—a parchment unturned.
Are you the traveller - destined to discover songs
stammered in sylvan parlance, composed of ratio –
questions posed upon where corners run too far?
The woods breathe a quiet scattering
of ghost notes unwelcome in civil dialogues.
Hear them, inkpots guarding seedlings of memory,
their velvet touches lifting our muted thymos.
Enter now through non-syllabic verse into corridors of silence,
visit Rivulet Dance and Hanging Sky.
Or dare to find a truth amid Silent Repose.