Within the emerald cloister of hidden gardens, a breeze dances, stitching together tales only spoken in softness, hushed and reverent. These stories, draped upon the gnarl of ancient boughs, seek the ears eager to hear. Look closely, beyond the mundane, to where shadows pulse with a gentle urgent light. Truths hidden within the foliage breathe.
"Pine, cedar, roses, and myrrh," chirps a voice, woven through the tapestry of leaves. A tapestry marinated in moonlight and tendrils of lavender, embroidered with each rustle. A boon to those who walk among whispers seeking silent truths buried in flower beds.
@@@ Secrets of silent nights @@@
Unseen watchman, guardian of dawn,
Fields of clover whispering songs
Only stars could script.
Follow not the winding path but the silver hues that beckon. They sprout from soil older than tongue or scribe, mingling roots with hof-laced whispers that speak of sacred relics visible only to the dream that dares dream awake.