In the bend of aeons unfinished, the computer luminescence fades,
a harmonized echo of the android sigh. They whispered of dawns
perpetual, circled sunwise by thought, not by time.
What do the inscriptions on today's clay leave, if not a mirror
to that which is already passed, albeit unseen writhes in the dark
veil before tomorrow's birth?
Do your fingers trace valleys of the etheric unknown, where
ancestors once marveled the uncarved internet stars?