A strip of tape, a head, a state–
So simple, yet it seals our fate.
No screen, no keys, no ports, no fan–
Just rules that turn the gears of man.
It reads, it writes, it shifts, it stays–
Through quiet, infinite, mystic plays.
A '0', a '1', a blank, a move–
Yet from this void, all things improve.
It doesn't care for time or place–
It loops, it halts, it sets the base.
Each function known, each task defined,
Was dreamt first in Turing's mind.
It doesn't crash, it doesn't freeze–
Unless, of course, you please it please.
And though it hums with ghostly grace,
You'll find its heart in every trace–
In every byte, in every core,
In every loop and every for.
Final Thought:
While hardware burns and languages fade,
Turing's machine is still the blade.