When the sun slips through the emerald lattice,
it sends tidings through the emerald tongues.
Listen deep, beyond the heel of the murmur,
and the rhythm unfolds—the dance of the bark.
Ah, but only the wanderers etched in sap-light
may trace the secrets in the rustle, the coded whispers.
Beneath the laurel crown, in shadows of yore,
a symphony of photosynthesis calls.
In twilight hours, whispers in the language of tree veins: "Breathe, O traveler, the cedar's hymn is a compass."
Separated by boughs and dreams spun in lichen,
the song remains known to the squirrel and the whispering wind.
Immerse in the tapestry of cloven sinew and timber shades,
a secret enrooted in rhythm.
Find refuge in the spiral ascent of cypress and fir,
their stories woven in the knots of time.
The path bends like a stream through green prose,
inviting you to dance, to decipher the ancient riddle.