In the heart of the ancients lies more than silence; it sings a song of thistledown stars. Each note hangs like dew upon a fragile web, a symphony unbroken by the passage of time. Woodland spirits weave their threads into the fabric of dusk tangled in twilight's embrace.
The cryptic echoes thrum beneath layers of emerald and shadow, dancing upon the nodes where roots intertwine with aspens yearning for whispers not yet spoken. Foxglove lips part, murmuring in botanical tongues. Listen; the forest has many voices.
Leaves blaze into their storied decay, their downfall a chakra of colors. From sage to cardinal, they reel through air like musing specters tracing their epitaph across the arcane sky-map. Here, even whispers have seasons, wandering, ever entwined.
Step softly, dear pilgrim. Respect what you tamp, lest your kernel of reality breaks some master's slumber.