In the hollow of the tree,
a silence curls upon itself,
knees drawn tight,
as if waiting for a dream to hatch.

The bark parts like ribs,
and within—
a figure of stone breathes
petals and shadow,
a sentinel stitched from dust.

Ellyllon drift through the cracks,
their laughter
a thin silver thread,
their wings—
a memory of moths dissolving in flame.

Even the roots lean inward,
drinking secrets,
learning how grief
can turn to fruit.

This is no shrine,
but a seam in the world
where time folds back on itself,
and the forgotten child
still listens
for a language
that once taught silence
how to bloom.