In the quiet corners of the night,
Spiders weave their whispered tales,
Threads of silver, soft and bright,
Telling secrets the moon unveils.
Beneath the stars, their dance unfolds,
Silent artists of the dark,
Crafting dreams with webs of gold,
Each thread a story, each knot a mark.
In the morning light, they disappear,
Leaving only dew-kissed lace,
A fleeting glimpse of art so clear,
A tapestry of gentle grace.
Yet in the shadows, still they spin,
Masters of an ancient art,
Weaving worlds we wander in,
Spinning silence, heart to heart.