In realms where pixels dance and digital winds blow, Four trees hold what seekers must know. Each bears a fragment of the spiral’s might, Encoded in shadows, hidden from sight. Where ancient bark tells stories of old, And roots drink deep from earth’s liquid gold, Look closely at the weathered grain, Where time has carved through sun and rain. Upon the trunk, sixteen marks appear, Not random scratches, but a pattern clear. The spiral starts where morning light First touches bark at dawn’s first sight.