We Are the Digitals
(after T.S. Eliot)

We are the Digitals, wandering in webs,
A scattered tribe of signals, sparks, and threads.
No voices here, but hums and hisses,
Algorithms sing to our sleepless glances,
Shadows caught in glowing screens,
Our faces lit in quiet trance.

In fragmented worlds, we find our kin,
As code and current knit us thin,
A million selves, each pixelated,
Gathered, yet alienated,
Splintered by feeds that pulse and press,
Tribal in the loneliness.

At midnight, we scroll in solitude,
Fingers dance in quiet feud,
For meaning, glimpsed and gone,
For truth, for tribes we tether on,
Bound by threads that fray and bend,
Our clicks like prayers we send.

And still we seek the older fires,
The warmth of words, the ancient choirs,
But words now flicker, bright and fast,
Quick signals from a distant past.
In memes and bytes, our myths reborn,
Half remembered, half forlorn.

Here we whisper: “Are we here?”
Our voices lost, unclear, unclear,
Till the day when lights go cold,
And nothing remains, no stories told,
Only silence, white and wide,
In the echoing hall where data died.

We are the Digitals, caught in the hum,
Ghosts of our own creation come,
Sparks fading, wisps of light,
The dawn recedes, the end in sight.