Step lightly into this forgotten glade where tree trunks twist like gnarled fingers reaching towards the heavens.
Glimmers of evening dew cling to leaves, a tapestry woven by the night's breath.
Here, mirrors do not show faces but the soul's shadow, casting secrets in whispers.
What do you see, dear traveler, when the mirror forgets your name?
The ancients speak in rustling leaves, their stories etched in the root's embrace.
Listen closely, for the woods guard truths never meant for daylight's eye.