The leaves murmur fragments of forgotten lore,
Echoing through the veins of ancient oaks,
A tender sonnet woven of sylvan lore,
Whispers lost in the emerald cloaks.
Here, in the cradle of sleeping roots,
The murmurs sculpt worlds in invisible hues,
Carved by wind's breath and nature's flutes—
A harmony, a dance where wild thoughts ensues.
Listen, the stream hums with brushed silver notes,
A hymn to the twilight that cradles the stars,
Reverberating in the lull of gentle moats,
As shadows weave a tale in the morning spars.
Grasp, if you dare, the echoes that linger
On petals that kiss the sylvan sonnet’s tune,
A tapestry of whispers, a clamor of singers,
They unravel worlds to the serenading moon.