I. The Mask of Leaves

The forest lifts its mask of green and gold,

layer upon layer, fold over fold.

Each leaf a shimmer, each shadow a seam,

a shifting face in a half-lit dream.

The branches reach with arms of disguise,

yet truth still lingers in hidden eyes.

They gleam in silence, soft and bright,

a secret language of broken light.

I walk beneath this many-faced crown,

my breath like a prayer, my gaze cast down.

What of me is mask, and what is bone?

What of me sings when I stand alone?

The leaves reply in a trembling tongue:

to hide is to heal, to shield is to belong.

Each veil a shelter, each layer a song,

to keep the fragile roots grown strong.

But wind will loosen, one veil, then all,

and branches whisper what cannot fall:

scarred, bent, beautiful, worn by years—

truth unveiled is the truth that endures.