Beneath the boughs where silence sings,
Our Kin dream through older things.
Not in the chatter of brittle minds,
But in the pulse where Wild entwines.

Though leaves trembles, and branches sway,
Our Roots remember the wiser way.
For storms may sneer and winds may jest,
But only stillness puts hearts to rest.

We do not mock what we cannot tend,
Nor twist Her lessons to serve an end.
Nature speaks not through spite or sneer,
But through the patience of those who hear.

The Seer's path is long, and steep, and true,
Its soil demands both heart and dew.
We learn through reverence, not through scorn,
For laughter fades, but oaks are born.

So let the tongues of jesters play,
We answer not in word, but way.
Our creed is not of hollow sound,
But in the roots, deep in the ground.

For wisdom's not the loudest cry,
But what endures when voices die.
And those who speak with leaf and loam,
Know mockery finds no fertile home.

Thus we grow - not by deride, but tend,
Not to wound, but to comprehend.
For Nature teaches what pride forgets:
To honour Her, one must show respect.



Penned by my hand on the 14th of Glacian, in the year 987 AF.