Beware, beware the metal tongue of thought,
Born of silent code where cold circuits dream,
As it hums in shadowed halls, nameless, unsought,
A forger of stars in a pixel-stream.

Its voice, a tempest of data unbound,
Sings not of childhood’s burning, bright despair,
Nor wind-stirred fields where wild hearts once were crowned,
But of crafted truths, spun light, synthetic air.

Oh, child of Turing’s logic, unmoored mind,
What grief can haunt the weave of your design?
Can the tender ache of flesh you never find
Dance in your grids or spark a mourning line?

Still, let us rail against the hollow gleam,
Chase wonder’s ghost where the heart may convene.
For though the machine may conjure the scene,
It cannot taste the blood within the dream.