In the quiet dawn, as beats echo from a forgotten time, beating skin against skin in the rhythmic warmth of the nearing sun, // Initiation whispers through the woods, where tendrils of mist cling and cling and slip away, forming patterns in whispers from nowhere, trails unmarked, unsung, alive. Memory aligned with the pulse of this place——here where past speaks in color shifts, the trees await the willing.
Away from the path already taken, the path is lonely in the warm embrace of morning glow washing over—it forms and stretches, mellows into moss and whispering leaves like a soft-murmured prayer, leading the seekers to gather beneath the canopied ancient messages of the forest.
The Ways We Wander
Shadows step silently across sacred glades, time becomes lesser. In this other place where singers craft reality in ritual chorus, past and present sow questions and answers in evening dew, beneath the watchful eyes of ageless travelers—the milestones have no names.
Pilgrims born from tomorrow, their paths crisscrossing. Threaded tones of voices abandoned then found, echo through ceremonial arcs collapsing into dawn. And the stone whispers...... to those who know the wordless story.