The ancient oaks murmur secrets, their gnarled branches weaving in darkness, holding the tales of those who lost their way. Whispers travel like the smoke of forgotten fires, curling around the ears of wanderers in search of the path untraveled.
Branches quiver strangely, as if cradling the silence of a thousand unshed tears. Beneath the arching bowers lies a language encrypted, rhythms echoing in the rustling foliage...
Every step taken upon the mossy zeroing crown of creation bespeaks of dreams woven into the cold ground below. A tapestry of despair mingled with ecstasy, each blade of grass cradling the nameless dead.