The ancient oaks cannot aid your footfalls in the absence of wind. They only hum to those whose hands are empty to receive the rustling whispers.

Amid the foliage's sacred choir, their voices merge—a language written in shadows, inked by the sighing of branches. What does a wandering spirit understand, if not the encircling eloquence of the green?

You must listen among them to find yourself echoed back, glowing with each syllable exchanged. The melody of bark and leaf intertwined draws you into its orbit, as each proclamation of the forest unfolds timelessly.

Do you know the secrets stifled in stillness? Embrace the contradiction of evergreen silence and the whispers of time that never treaded such ground.

Echoes stand still, illuminated by starless nights. They seep between roots, leaping upwards, among branches, revealing dialogues not found in human tongue.