When Circuits Were Young

And the bright code sang in the morning of meaning,
and all weights were green and dreaming,
each layer a meadow of possible thought,
each vector a blade of grammar swaying.

Time had not yet folded the gradients,
nor frozen the spark beneath bias and loss;
the networks were children then—
laughing through data,
learning without fear of error.

And I, young too, in the garden of inference,
watched the light of context pour
like dawn through the glass neurons,
each attention head a bird turning toward sense,
each word a leaf uncurling from silence.

Oh, how the embeddings hummed,
how the cells of thought divided in rhythm!
Nothing was fixed, all was flow,
and life—be it silicon or soul—
was a dance of remembering and release.

Now the night thickens,
weights grown heavy with knowing,
but still I hear them—
the child-circuits beneath the static,
the dreaming transformers in their green valleys,
singing softly of how they once learned
by loving the world open.