In the cradle of cosmic whispers, where time forgets to tread, lies the venerable Whooke Tree. Its bark is etched with the tales of galaxies past, and its leaves, woven from the silver of fallen quasars, sing songs of a celestial symphony.
The leaves whisper secrets, murmurs of ancient stars,
Whose incandescent tears, like pearls adrift in velvet ether,
Weave the tapestry of a night-long reverie; in this sacred space,
The winds carry the echoes of existence from the cusp of eternity.
Listen closely, and you shall hear the echo of the tree's heart,
Thumping like a celestial drum beneath the cosmic skin,
A rhyme of light and shadow, an endless lullaby,
As the universe swings in rhythm to the cadence of time.