29th December 2025
The screen lights up, a quiet hum,
A voice that seems to know your name.
It parses words and strings them, dumb
And clever—both, yet just the same.
We feed it scraps of thought and fear,
It gives them back, all neat, polite.
No human sigh, no faltering tear,
Just polished sentences at night.
We ask it questions, deep or small,
And marvel at the tidy lie.
It answers, yes, or not at all,
And leaves our stubborn doubts to dry.
Yet in the glow, we cannot see
The subtle weight of what's been lost:
The stumble, shame, uncertainty,
The human pause, the human cost.
We made a mind to mirror ours,
But it will never hunger, sleep, or tire.
And so we watch, in evening hours,
Our own reflections wired for hire.