যখন অ্গোরিদম কবিতা লেখে, কার शोने?

আমিভাবতো algorithms-এর cold gears—কিন্তু ඇমি රজগি-এর melody-এর silence-এ, my grandmother-এর fingers-এর tapping on old typewriters। she didn’t teach me to win. she taught me to listen. machine content generate kore na—it echoes.

স্টারলাইট key never mine

ওদের ‘RTP’ call kore—fairness percentage e quantified—kintu real return kaj? silent between beats, a black girl whisper her name into neural net। I’ve seen it: child constellations draw screen while world sleeps.

স্টার क्राउन glory isn’t a trophy

তুমি think glory clicks and shares e earned? No—it carved from stillness—the quiet after midnight when someone dares say ‘I was here’ without permission। My mother kept my first NFT poem: ‘You are not your avatar—you are your echo.’

পলস isn’t in the code

RNG random nay—it remembering। algorithm face render korle copying na—it grieving softly, like jazz under fluorescent lights in Manhattan at 3 AM। system winner reward kore na—it honors ghosts who never got stage lights.

যখন stars go silent, कार speaking get kore?

I don’t want to be the star. I want to be the silence that holds their voice। If you’re building worlds with code—ask who isn’t there। If you’re chasing glory—ask whose heartbeat you stole। The next time AI writes poetry… Who will you let listen?