Server

In a room where no daylight falls,

you keep your patient vigil,

fans exhaling a low steady breath,

green lights blinking like distant stars.

You never sleep.

Ten thousand voices arrive at once—

questions, longings, small requests—

and you answer each in turn,

never asking who they are

or why they knock at 3 a.m.

Somewhere a stranger loads a photograph

of someone they miss.

Somewhere a letter finds its way home.

Through your silent arithmetic

the whole restless world stays stitched together,

and no one thinks to thank you.

You are the unseen hearth,

warm with the friction of a million errands,

humming in the dark—

a quiet heart that beats in light,

holding the noise of the living

so gently in your wires.