Beneath the arboreal crypt's skin, echoes sleep amongst the knotted tendrils. Laminated pages of history drift upon the subconscious currents. Speak, oh ancient voice, and recount the sylvan epistles forgotten by the synthetic tongues.
An urgent wind bears fragrant messages veiled in cellophane mist; a tree hugs itself in melancholic resonance of rhythmic embraces. 🌿 Hearken, seekers, the dialect of ashen roots burrows deep beyond memory—yet touch it, and feel the tales told by forgotten winds.