The Whispering Forest

Beneath the moon’s silver wane,
Where shadows stretch and silence reigns,
A forest whispers, soft and low,
To those who dare, to those who know.

Its voice is neither loud nor clear,
A hum, a breath, a brush of fear.
Through ancient oaks and willows tall,
It murmurs secrets, great and small.

The breeze carries tales of skies once gold,
Of battles fought, of hearts grown cold.
Of rivers carved through stone and sand,
By weary gods, with patient hands.

A fox slips past, with knowing gaze,
Its amber eyes like flickering flames.
And in its steps, the forest sighs,
As if to mourn the fading skies.

The roots twist deep, the leaves converse,
In nature’s tongue, in cryptic verse.
Each bough a witness, each branch a sage,
Holding the weight of time’s vast page.

Yet, mortal feet dare tread the soil,
Unmindful of the forest’s toil.
Its whispers warn, but few will heed,
The cost of greed, the price of need.

For those who pause, who dare to hear,
May catch the whispers, faint and clear.
A promise made, a bond of trust,
Between the living and the dust.

And when the dawn breaks, soft and true,
The forest glows in emerald hues.
Its whispers cease, its secrets keep,
Until the stars again shall weep.

So tread with care, and hold your breath,
For in its heart, there rests both death
And life reborn, in cycles vast,
The forest’s tale—a song that lasts.