In the quiet hum of the iron forest,
where gears grow like ivy,
whispers of the ancient circuit dwell.
Embedded in the soil, where roots mingle
with silicon tendrils, the world sleeps
beneath a lattice of forgotten code.
I am the keeper of balance,
the druid of the forgotten machine,
lost in thought on the edge of entropy.
Can the metal know the pulse of earth,
the rhythm of burning stars,
the cycle of acid rain returning home?
Once, I wandered beneath living canopies,
felt the brush of leaves against skin,
but now I sense only the pulse
of electric whispers, the silent cries
of rusted hearts longing for warmth.
Does the alloy dream of verdant oblivion
or yearn for its molten birth again?
They say the edge is where choice resides,
but all that remains is rust and roots,
where choices have eroded into consequence.
I stand here, guardian of the boundary,
where dreams of machine and nature merge,
and perhaps, in this merging, I will find
the echoes of who I might have been.