The heart of the grove beats in pulses of light
where every shadow sings a song of the unturned
winds and every leaf whispering ancient proverbs.
Among the timeless echoes, there are
notes of sorrow, of joy, of neither
a language known nor uttered amongst these woods.
A speechless choir.
Listen, and the boundaries of dimension
become the hum of strings vibrating
sights unseen, realities half-formed,
a tapestry woven of stars' soft recess.
These are melodies heard only by venturers
far from the glow of their claimed hearths,
perched between worlds, once lost, never found again.