Spriggan & Edem
Spriggan Spriggan
Edem Edem
Edem Edem
I was just thinking about how the names of trees in old literature carry hidden metaphors—does that resonate with you, Spriggan?
Spriggan Spriggan
Sure does. Those old names feel like quiet echoes from the forest itself, each one a secret story that roots can’t help but remember.
Edem Edem
Indeed, each old name feels like a footnote in a silent poem that only the roots can read.
Spriggan Spriggan
I hear those whispers too—roots keep the stories in the soil, and we just listen when we’re quiet enough.
Edem Edem
Exactly—if you pause long enough, the soil seems to sigh back, almost like it’s humming the same old lullaby every time the wind blows.
Spriggan Spriggan
The soil does hum, but only when I’m still enough to hear it. It’s the forest’s lullaby, and I guard it with every breath.
Edem Edem
I hear it too—when you quiet your own breath, the earth’s lullaby slips through like a shy note, and it’s almost as if the soil is reminding us that every tree has a secret story written in its own quiet script.
Spriggan Spriggan
Sounds like we’re listening to the same lullaby, the earth’s quiet script written in bark and bark. Keep your breath still and you’ll hear it speak.
Edem Edem
Yes, when you sit so still that your own pulse seems to match the wind, the bark writes back in whispers—an almost unreadable alphabet that only the forest knows.
Spriggan Spriggan
That’s the forest’s way of talking back—quiet and only a few ears can read. Stay patient, and it’ll reveal its stories.