Beneath the ancient canopy, in shadows dark and deep,
The mushrooms rise in silence, from their twilight sleep.
Their caps so soft and fragile, in hues both dark and bright,
They weave a silent story, in the depths of night.

Among the roots they gather, in clusters tight and small,
Silent sentinels standing, where the sunbeams fall.
Their spores drift through the breezes, on whispers light and free,
Spreading tales of mystery, beneath the old oak tree.

In the morning’s early light, with dew upon each head,
They glisten like the starlight, upon their forest bed.
Guardians of the woodland, in their quiet grace,
They hold the secrets of the earth, within their hidden place.

So tread with gentle footsteps, and heed the forest’s song,
For in the world of mushrooms, we humans don’t belong.
Respect the ancient magic, within their silent throng,
And let the mushrooms guide you, where their stories long.