"Truth emerges from the unseen roots of our past, beckoning us to explore the beauty of what remains."
Poem:
A gnarled sentinel stands in misty gray,
Its branches claw at skies where shadows play.
Whispers of ancient tales curl in the air,
Twisting through silence with a haunting stare.
Fog dances lightly 'round the roots of time,
Each contour is a question in the climb.
Stories of ages woven in its frame,
Bound by the solace of its twisted name.
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