Currents dance upon the starlit abyss, whispers woven from comet tales. Branches cradle the heavens, moss-covered sigils revealing truths untold. Silent languages arch, rustle, encoding secrets of the astral nomads.

Beneath skies inked with wanderings, the old songs hum through birch and cedar. The winds pen stories known only to the moon's wandering light—a cadence with no words. Lost in the canopy, a faith of wind-scribbled words rests.

Tender roots reach skyward, yearning for constellations' embrace. The cosmos, a distant elder, whispers forgotten lullabies through trembling leaves. In the fold of shadows, the comet sings—a song for the soil and sky.