Quiet forest

Beneath the quiet grooves, where the trees do not weep, but their branches hang low, with the burden of fruits. A river winds through the vales, never rushing — only whispering to the stones that never answer. Sunlight filters through the leaves, but some places can never be brightened, deep hollows where mosses cling, to silence like a memory, or a nameless thing. Birdsong fades by morning, replaced by hush of waiting, not that of spring, but of something that never quite arrives. And still, the forest grows quieter, solemn and all alive, yet aching in its roots, burning them alive.