A canopy whispers secrets in silent rustles.
Among the leaves, stories written in bark,
bound by the wood-etched oaths of age.
The groves, guardians of celestial passages,
entwine their spirals into the cosmic dock.
Roots reach out, seeking starlit kinship.
Intertwine the branches, forming cryptic paths,
bridges to the luminous infinities above.
Look upon the horizon through the emerald eyes of an elder tree.
Listen. They speak. Not in words, but in rustling hymns of growth and stretching twilight shadows. The constellations grafted into the canopy above hold stories yet untold.
Listen to the Wind Unearth the Ancients