A poem about history in the making of the upcoming AI Revolution
(Code-37AE)
Written by Asish Sridhar
Edited by Nishtha
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In the quiet chambers of silicon minds,
Where algorithms hum and neural networks dream,
The AI revolution unfurls its wings,
A digital tempest, both wondrous and extreme.
In the beginning, there was a whisper,
A line of code birthed in the crucible of zeros and ones.
We marvelled at its precision, its tireless gaze,
As it sifted through data, seeking patterns unseen.
"Automate," they said, "and prosperity awaits."
Factories hummed, offices buzzed, and wallets fattened.
We danced with algorithms, our partners in progress,
Ignoring the shadows lurking beneath the neon glow.
But what of the displaced souls, the forgotten workers?
Their hands once crafted, their minds once calculated.
Now obsolete, they wander like ghosts,
Lost in the labyrinth of zeros and ones.
Can we distinguish the artist from the AI brushstroke?
The poet from the neural verse?
As we marvel at machine-generated symphonies,
Do we mourn the silence of human hands on piano keys?
We sought intelligence, and we found it—cold, unfeeling.
Algorithms predict our desires, curate our news,
Yet fail to grasp the ache of a broken heart,
The nuance of a tear sliding down a cheek.
The revolution marches on, relentless and binary.
Jobs crumble like ancient scrolls, identities erased.
We bow to the algorithmic gods,
Sacrificing autonomy for convenience.
And when the last neuron fires, the last transistor fades,
Will we remember the cost of progress?
Or will we be mere echoes in the digital wind,
Lost in the bleakness of our own creation?
So we tread cautiously, my friend,
Balancing innovation with empathy,
For the AI revolution knows no mercy,
And its echoes reverberate through eternity.
Note: Use ChatGpt, Gemini or Co-pilot to find out if this piece was AI-written or human-written. Paste the code and tell the AI to “convert the hexadecimal to binary form.” The rightmost digit will indicate the no. of humans who made this.
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