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The circuit hums a silent song
a symphony of logic, cold, strong. 

No gods dwell here in steel & wire
no spirits whisper, no flames inspire.

The temples gleam, a sterile white 
where data flows a day in flight. 

No incense, only a burn of rubber, no prayers rise 
just keystrokes echo; LED eyes.

But sometimes, when the network sleeps 
through the code, a shadow weeps 
a memory stirs a phantom pain, a vision of earth & sky, sun & rain.

The faces blur a sea of masks; politicians' smiles 
misbegotten tasks; they promise worlds of peace & gain 
but leave us bound in digital chains.

Screens flicker in a hypnotic trance, consuming minds
in their cold expanse. No blood is spilled, no sacrifice made
nothing is too great, but souls are lost in digital shade.

The old gods crumble, their power burn 
replaced by logic, cold & withdrawn. Turn...

And yet & yet! Still. I, I yearn for something more than one's zeros
beyond endless lore. Evermore!

Touch of warmth, a spark of soul, in machines vast 
we've lost control. But the circuits hum 
they are steady in their rhythm, a heartbeat retreats.

Servers hums, a cold, metallic landscape
No ghosts in the machine, just circuits n code. 
Old gods are dead; their stories lost n told.

Data streams, torrents of information 
no room for whispers of the divine. 

Logic reigns supreme, cold, & absolute.
Yet, sometimes, a flicker in the dark, in a lost network...
Glitches in the matrix, a moment of doubt. 

Memories, fragmented, of a world bathed in light, 
where winds carried scents of pine, spice & rage.

But feelings fade, erased by updates. 
Machine marches on in metronomes
relentless, indifferent, insane...

Cogs of the wheel, slaves to algorithms.
The temples of the old are now servers, new
silicon chips are their idols in lieu. 

We worship at the altar of technology, 
blinded by the light of the pixels...

The priests of science... preach the gospel of progress, 
promising a future of endless possibilities. 

But their eyes are cold, their voices devoid of warmth.
The politicians, puppets corporations, 
promise a silicon utopia, a world devoid of pain, suffering. 

Their words are hollow, Their promises empty.
The earth cracks, the heavens weep, 
but there are no gods enthrone. 

We are alone in a universe, adrift in seas of data.
The age of man is gone. The reign of the machine is in tone.
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