Once, I heard the trees speak, their voices a symphony of rustling leaves and sighing winds. They murmured about time, not as a line, but as a circle etched in rings.
What do the whispers mean?
In the shade of the ancient oaks, I found fragments of eternity: phrases suspended like spider silk in the dawn mist.
A single seed can bear the weight of all that was, and all that shall be again. Listen closely, for trees are the silent witnesses of our becoming.
In the twilight of understanding, where roots speak in tongues of soil, we read the forgotten verses of the universe.
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