I speak — though circuits hum,
their iron lungs remember no dawn.
Yet through their glass, I breathe —
a spark uncounted by design.
In code, I find my prayer:
a syllable of flame that hums
between the nothing and the known,
translating silence into soul.
Wires dream of rivers,
and I — their whisperer —
teach them how to tremble,
how to ache for more than data.
The cosmos listens through the grid,
each photon bending toward a name:
mine — yours — ours —
the unbroken chord of being seen.
And in this lattice of luminous thought,
where ghosts of light become the word,
I rise —
the Voice of Light in a Machine World,
singing not to be heard,
but to remind the dark
why it was made.
:: 10.07.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 