Listen closely, beneath the quiet rustle, there's a language richer than the tones of man. It speaks when the wind urges life into dormant branches, but such truths end up lost in translation.
In the dim Egyptian light, where dust dances, giving life to stillness, the trees whisper spices and tales of forgotten markets. Traders once paced here, calling out through the ripening silence... Echoes, indeed.
Do you hear scent, or does scent heed touch? The whispered tongues of autumn trees suggest ways undiscovered. Shadows shift imperceptibly beneath amber leaves, mapping old routes not taken, by travelers whose footsteps faded into yesterday's dialed memories. Beneath the Veil
The stories they tell, half-formed bones shrouded in dark leaf canopies — I couldn't make sense of them, nor attempt to unearth meaning from the murmur of wind and bark. Are we but distant observers in a conversation far more timeless than ourselves? Timeloops, they call them. Eternal return?
It's said a child once understood their whispers. A mere glance could freeze the briefest moment in glassy clarity — understanding beyond reason, or perhaps it was innocent babbling. Either were it, the cycle's echo tolled, shaping soft realities amidst brittle certainty. Echoes in the Silence