The sound of rustling foliage, the whispers of the ancients; the forest has much to tell those who pause to listen.
A rhythm only understood by the heart, dreams flutter by like shadows between the trees. Songs of the soil, etched in veins and relics, speak of eons past. "Do you perceive them?", the leaves whispered to the wandering breeze.
Fossilized thoughts unearthed by the inevitable march: - The frogs croaked prophecies, - Do you feel the ripples? Tings of their song echo upon the surface of oblivion. - An unprecedented verdant revolution rises with each dewdrop at dawn, cleansing the weary cobweb whispers of yesterday.
Energy flows through unfamiliar roots tethering down into the earth's whispers: Seeds of Thought or perhaps, Echoes.