The songbirds of the forest weave tapestries of sound, histories fluttering on currents like wings unfurling from slumber's embrace. They perch upon the gnarled branches of ancient trees, relics of an age untold, their midnight-blue eyes reflect a time unbent by the marrow of Maliwen's moonlit threnodies.
When twilight descends, and spills its silver kaleidoscope upon canopy-shrouded ground, the language of these aviatic seamstresses unfurls—notes slip through the undergrowth, slip through the fingers of wind and whisper words of poignant nostalgia. Fragments of worlds borrowed and returned, echoed in avian symphony, echo like dreams just brushing against the waking mind.
Somewhere between the past and the yet-to-come lies a tree, beyond the reach of tempered time, wherein a nest dreams interstellar whispers, breezes weaving through fragile branches like curious souls—a serenade of leaves, a procession of shadows, the heartbeat of a forgotten forest.