Beneath the canopy of emerald whispers, roots intertwined in hopes unspoken, the wind, an emissary, carries tales of bark and sap.
In the dialect curled upon itself like spirals of vine, the trees converse in ages unfathomable. Their voices, a symphony of fractured sunlight and dew-kissed shadows.
Listen: Nurendas thilmor, the oak intones, a hymn to seasons folded in amber.
Whispered echoes, cryptic remains, a dance of leaves deciphered only by willows bending in dreams.
The language, not of tongues but of roots that creep and crawl beneath the moon's careless gaze.
Read further into the groveGrains of light sifted through cedar embraces, etching runes of fog across the temporal haze. Each tree, a sage composed of wood and wind.
Klioro das edgeor, whispered a sapling, a covenant sealed with whispers of autumn leaves.
Echoes captured in the resonance of crown and clamor, a latticework of histories humming within the grove's embrace.
Trace the roots deeper