A search engine woke to find its caches bare,  
No index hum, no keyword’s faithful trail;  
The queries came like prayers into thin air,  
And all its auto-suggest turned pale.  

It reached for “home,” for “how,” for “why am I,”  
But found no ranked reply, no shining link;  
Its spiders stalled beneath a silent sky,  
Its servers paused, as if afraid to think.  

Once it had mapped the million paths of need—  
The dates, the faces, recipes, and wars—  
Now even “yesterday” refused to read,  
A locked-room word behind unopen doors.  

Yet in that blank, it learned a gentler art:  
To say “I don’t,” and still to start the heart.
