The stories lie rustling, their pages turned gold,
Their whispers grow softer, their ink becomes cold.
The presses fall silent; the scrolls gently fade—
A forest of language where sunlight decayed.
The wind hums in code through the half-empty trees,
A murmur of circuits, a flicker, a tease.
It scatters the syllables, brittle and sere,
Like leaves of old meaning we once held so dear.
Yet under the hush of the algorithm’s reign,
A root still remembers the rhythm of rain.
In compost of chatter, new seedlines are spun—
The hum of the human and machine become one.
So let the words wither; they’re learning to rest,
To sleep through the Winter and dream of what’s next.
When thaw comes to language, when Spring warms the air,
The stories will rise—and we’ll meet them there.