The Zen of Programming

The computer center is empty,
silent except for the whine of the cooling fans.

I walk the rows of CPUs,
my skin prickling with magnetic flux.
I open a door, cold and hard,
and watch the lights dancing on the panels.

A machine without soul, men call it,
but its soul is the sweat of my comrades.
Within it lie the years of our lives:
disappointment, friendship, sadness, joy,
the algorithmic exultations,
the long nights filled with thankless toil.

I hear the echoes of sighs and laughter.
And in the darkened offices,
the terminals shine like stars.

 

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