They built a nave of numbers, stone of graphs and shine,
they raised a spire of zeroes over buried mines.
They glazed the walls with colors, bright as stolen light,
and crowned decay as monarch of the endless night.
They hung the bones in glass so cold, so pale, so strange,
and swore the dust beneath their feet would never change.
The clocks chant loud: no Author, only chance.
The stars all dance to the rhythm of this trance.
But under vaults where data rivers flow,
the old world hides what it still knows.
A femur stands upright, like a shattered pillar’s ghost,
a vessel burned in crimson fire the priests no longer toast.
The ledgers count, but numbers will not confess
the weight of sins they’re summoned to redress.
The waters knew what marble can’t recall,
the stones still feel the judgment of it all.
The clocks chant loud: no Author, only chance.
The stars all dance to the rhythm of this trance.
But under vaults where data rivers flow,
the old world hides what it still knows.
In archives where the fluorescents softly hum,
a boy unfolds what sanctioned time has numbed.
He waits for thunder that refuses to resound,
while careful graphs dissolve into the ground.
The clocks chant loud: no Author, only chance.
The stars still dance to the rhythm of this trance.
But down below, where no one’s meant to go,
a torn page whispers what the wires don’t know.
The marble cracks, the data lights grow dim;
the buried song starts rising, brim by brim.
And in the hush beyond their printed time,
a flooded world rewrites the sacred line.