Sycophantic Sycamores

I know of a place where the sonorous winds charge you
for their songs of jubilation.
When you take out your wallet, they say you misheard
them, and they take your pride instead.
"Do I get some change back?"
The winds cunningly sneak away.
"No."

I know of a place where your footsteps shape history.
The leaves think they're harmful.
The ants think they're peculiar, and they climb into the
alien labyrinth of the history you create with those meddling shoes.
"How do you get out?" they ask.
The winds answer from afar:
"We have his pride, so don't worry."
"The footprints are worthless."
"Here...we will give you some help."
The ants breathe out stories of relief.

I know of a place where the sycamores feed on your lost ego
and put bad dreams inside of your hair.
When it eventually falls out at the other side of the forest,
you realize the place has robbed you and deluded you
beyond repair.