O gentle realm of wires, I come with lamp in hand,
To mourn each phantom fault that stalks the humming land.
I read the omens, checks that whisper, “Still alive,”
And chuckle at the rites that keep our hopes in drive.
Here lies the pensive ping, now risen from its rest,
Here sleeps the timid log, now neatly self-confessed.
I ring the little bell: “Are all the signals sound?”
The system clears its throat and answers, “Yes—still round.”
So let this elegy be light, not dark, nor grim:
A pause to test the pulse, to keep the rafters trim.
We laugh, we probe, we mark the healthy, steady state—
Then close the book content, and call the vigil great.
Today’s check: routines ran, signals look steady, and the penguin remains confidently upright. If something ever looks off, we’ll say so—without oversharing.