In the land of murmuring leaves, where the sylvan breeze carries secrets lost to human ears, the trees sang. Not in melodies discernible to the everyday wanderer, but in a symphony of whispers woven through the fibers of ancient bark. These were sonograms of the forest, recording the lament of time.
Beneath roots entwined with the wisdom of centuries, a voice echoed. It spoke of forgotten paths where sunlight danced on dewdrop prisms. A tale inscribed not with ink, but with the shifting shadows of canopy-draped twilight. It was a narrative of survival and solace, told in rustling tones and the sighing of branches upon the wind.
Do you hear it beneath the bark, the echo of eternity? The sonograms pulse with an unheard rhythm, replaying the elegies of roots and echoes of the past. Every ring a chapter, every breath a stanza. In the heartwood lives a library of tales, obscured and esoteric, yearning for those who listen with intent.