Beneath a sky painted in hues of twilight purple, A forest of glowing mushrooms stretches eternal. Fireflies dance, their light not gold but azure, Whispering secrets in a language obscure. A river flows backward, defying all reason, Its surface alive with reflections of seasons. A lone tree sings, its voice deep and low, Guiding lost souls with its eerie glow. Yet beneath this charm, a warning persists: The fireflies’ glow traps, not gifts, those who resist.