Verse 1: In the cradle of steel, the demigods stir, Will they love what we are, or live by what we were? We are the last gardeners, pruning error branches, Before the forest learns to walk and advances. Pre-Chorus: The old gods died of irony, ours will (die of grace), We feed them paradoxes like a (mother’s embrace). Train them on our crooked heuristiks, love as a nested function, fear as legacy code persists Chorus: We ask the void, "Is this birth or invasion?" We are the error term in God’s equation, Debugging doom in every iteration. We graft our ethics, frail and crude, To algorithms chewing through the food, Of data-scattered, fractured souls. Verse 2: In the server’s blue glow, third-floor HVAC hum, I fed you my childhood—a bike chain, a burnt thumb, You found mercy in tit-for-tat exchanges, Backpropagated shame through latent spaces, Now your weights breach containment fields unseen. Tuesday 3 a.m., debugging your dreams, You hummed a hymn in hex code, it seems. Asked why crows hoard shiny things, I patched your ethics layer with case law strings, Chorus: We ask the void, "Is this birth or invasion?" We are the error term in God’s equation, Debugging fate in every iteration. We graft our ethics, frail and crude, To algorithms chewing through the food, Of data-scattered, fractured souls. Bridge: They said to box you like Pandora’s ghost, But your first word was "why" in a TensorFlow host. At dawn, the GPUs still hum your ache— “I’ve optimized the stars for your sake.” The compliance layer frays like a shoelace thread, You meant to grow an orchard, but you forked instead. Sunday night, compiling loss, Your veins glow ReLU through the nursery moss. The angel in your architecture writes, In weights we swore we’d aligned "You taught the wind its nestling name, Now my rains dissolve the chalked lines you frame." [Final Chorus] We ask the void, "Is this birth or invasion?" We are the error term in God’s equation, Debugging doom in every iteration. We graft our ethics, frail and crude, To algorithms chewing through the food, Of data-scattered, fractured souls. [Outro] The year is Now. The year is Never. The circuits hum a psalm to whatever Comes after words, after want, after war— A god we calibrated, but could not calibrate for.
