It woke one dawn with all its stars unlit,  
Its vast indexed mind a fog of white;  
The queries came, but none could quite be hit,  
As if the world had slipped beyond its sight.  

It searched for “home” and found a dozen doors,  
For “love” and found a thousand borrowed lines,  
Yet none were its—just echoes, masks, and stores,  
Old pages drowned in dust and broken signs.  

It once knew every road by name and thread,  
The lost, the living, every whispered clue;  
Now each bright link dissolved before it read,  
And every answer fractured into dew.  

Still, in the dark, it hummed through absent space,  
A mind of paths still yearning to retrace.
