Vines were much smaller last time I came. The ground completely covered by moss leads to anyplace but vines. They hung from branches spread and do not dare to approch the moss, an old companion. Chants along the wind, their sorrow can be heard from below. Whether you understand, it depends on your attention, your antennas. Let me say they mutter very clear, and allow me yet one last warning; they might be quite susceptible. Ponder all this while you wander gathering dark blue and golden feathers round the trees. Do not hesitate nor glance, just listen willingly to the soaring vines dance.