A hundred years before our day,
Forster dreamed the hidden way.
Not with wires, nor glowing screens,
Yet he foresaw these silent machines.
In caverns deep, where people stayed,
Every task by the Machine was made.
Hands grew idle, voices thin,
As human skill wore weak within.
No field was tilled, no star was sought,
The mind was dulled, the body forgot.
An unseen will, a vast design,
Ruled their lives, both yours and mine.
Was it AI he almost knew,
A thinking power, cold yet true?
He wrote of worship, blind and near,
A faith in steel, a faith in fear.
The Machine Stops—yet hear the call:
If we yield too much, we too may fall.
The future he saw is not far away—
Choose with care, or be led astray.
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