The trees of the forests are old, their bark brown and rotting. I could almost hear them whispering histories past, stories of bravery and might, of secrets made in times long ago. The trees can endure anything, endure as they have for hundreds of years. The trees are sleeping. Only a tiny part within their bark can call upon the memories from time to time.
Who will listen?
Who will hear their tales of time?
The trees remember the meadows that used to be green, but now run red with blood from long forgotten wars. Among all that die, the forest stands, the trees are unmoving, rooted to the spot where they first were born.
They are not part of one time, but of many.
They stand proud as the darkness takes a hold of the world, and yet they do not fall. They are not frail. They understand the cycle, they believe in it, the cycle of the world is in their bark, and they know all its secrets.
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