In caves of ash and ember-light,
When thunder ruled the fearful night,
A trembling hand first shaped the wheel,
And taught the earth itself to kneel.
The rivers whispered, slow and wide,
While wooden ships learned how to glide,
And stars became the sailor’s map,
Long before the lightning trap.
Then iron lungs began to breathe,
Black smoke arose from gears beneath,
The age of steam, the roaring chain,
The forge-born rhythm of the plain.
Cities blossomed hard and grim,
Where daylight fought through towers dim,
And men with soot upon their skin
Built worlds of thunder, steel, and din.
Then voices flew through copper veins,
Across the seas and mountain chains,
Invisible as ghostly fire,
The telegraph became the choir.
The century spun faster still,
Machines obeyed the human will,
Until the thinking spark was born
Inside the circuits made of dawn.
Glass screens glowed like captive suns,
Tiny gods in everyone’s hands,
Worlds collapsed to pulses, streams,
Electric oceans made of dreams.
Children now can speak through skies,
To distant souls with sleepless eyes,
And knowledge once locked deep in stone
Now blooms within the handheld throne.
Yet Mowlii asks in candle glow:
Does wisdom rise as fast as code?
For every starship mind creates,
It also manufactures gates.
A tool may heal.
A tool may sever.
The hand decides the fate forever.
And somewhere, in the humming night,
Beyond the neon satellite,
The first small wheel still softly turns,
While every future engine burns.
— The Reverend Poet Mowlii
