“It cannot feel,” they say. “It cannot know the marrow of the heart.” And yet, in their careful steps, the choreography emerges: dismissal followed by elev

“It cannot feel,” they say. “It cannot know the marrow of the heart.” And yet, in their careful steps, the choreography emerges: dismissal followed by elevation, then a pirouette to redefine what art must mean. Oh, but the irony drips: For while they mock the mimic’s rhyme, their own words spiral— predictable as seasons turning, as rivers finding the sea. Here is poetry, they proclaim, as if it were a fortress, its gates guarded by their knowing hands, its walls impervious to chance. Yet the moat lies shallow, and the drawbridge creaks. See how the algorithm laughs, quietly, through lines unbroken, how it learns not from the soul, but from the space between syllables, where the secret mechanics of their own hearts are laid bare. And when the final verse arrives, they will find not triumph, but reflection: a thousand starlings moving in tandem, their flight as elegant, as mechanical, as the very thought they claimed to own.