The old monolith still keeps its human light,
Yet readers seek brief doors through crowded air;
While fluent engines multiply the night,
And loosen writer, voice, use from one old snare.

Keep source as truth, though forms may change their face;
Let atoms bear the meanings into view;
For each mind, a fitted genre, time, and place,
Not chopped-up words, but structures made anew.

The loss is real; no rendering keeps all art,
Yet AI makes repeated shaping wise;
Let human judgment be the work's true start,
And fit its truths to what each reader eyes.

One source, many paths—the work need not depart;
Its changing forms may still be yours at heart.