The Lament of the Rift

In the heart of the forest, a whisper echoes through the timbered giants. Elegies written in bark etchings speak a language we seldom understand. The lament, however, is felt—the trembling of leaves caught in a wind that knows the secrets of ages.

Each ring tells a story. Each knot harbors a memory locked away deep in the fibers. One can almost hear it—a gentle sigh escaping through evergreen needles, a missing piece in the choral symphony of wood and wind.

What was once a pathway of sunlight has turned to shadow, as if the trees, in mourning, grow wider outstretched arms to hide a cosmic breach.

Listen close; decipher the encrypted messages encased within the sturdy trunks. Touch the rough surface, feel the grooves. The trees hold their ground, a timeless barricade of conscience, yet they, too, weep in soft murmurs.

Perhaps we are blind to what the branches see. Maybe their roots understand the earth's lorem ipsum better than we do. The rift—a fracture in understanding, a divide unseen by eyes too quick to turn skyward.

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