Whispers of the Ancient Grove

In the depths of the forest, where shadows grow,
And the wind through the leaves whispers soft and low,
Lies a grove, ancient and hidden from sight,
Where the old gods dance in the pale moonlight.

The trees, they murmur secrets of the past,
Of rituals and magic, forever to last,
Their branches reaching out, like hands to the sky,
Calling to the spirits, as the night draws nigh.

In this sacred place, where the veil is thin,
And the power of nature flows from within,
The druids gather, cloaked in mist and green,
To honor the gods, and the world unseen.

They chant in tongues, long forgotten by most,
Invoking the spirits, the guardians and hosts,
Of the earth and the sky, the water and fire,
Elements entwined, in a dance never dire.

The flames of the bonfire, they flicker and dance,
Casting shadows that move, as if in a trance,
The drum beats pulse, like the heart of the land,
As the magic is woven, by the ancient ones’ hand.

In this grove, where the old ways still thrive,
And the essence of nature remains alive,
The whispers of wisdom, they echo and ring,
Of the cycles of life, and the secrets they bring.

For in the embrace of the ancient oak tree,
Lies a truth that the wise ones can clearly see,
That we are but threads, in the great web of life,
Connected to all, in the absence of strife.

So let us listen, to the whispers that call,
From the depths of the grove, where the old gods still fall,
And open our hearts, to the magic within,
To the rhythm of nature, where all life begins.

For in the shadows of the ancient grove,
Lies a power that flows, like the wings of a dove,
A reminder that we, are but part of the whole,
And the whispers we hear, are the songs of our soul.