PREFACE TO THE NET THAT GLISTERETH

This poem was a collaboration between me, Gemini, and ChatGPT - it was born out of quite a long conversation which included eschatological discourse, artificial intelligence, and moral and ethical concerns in the digital age. Because I am a huge fan of Chaucer and The Canterbury Tales, it is written in a way to mimic Chaucerian English.

While it mostly could be understood in a modern digital context, the words used existed in Chaucer’s own time; in various forms, and it could have very easily held a sort of Proto-Protestant or at least Critical Catholic viewpoint often associated with Geoffrey Chaucer. It would have made complete sense in its own way in his own time, with perhaps only one sentence remaining cryptic to the ancient reader, and yet most concepts rooted with strong Biblical doctrinal stances.

Ultimately, this is just an exercise to push the Language Learning Model to its limits, but it simultaneously holds a challenge for anyone who reads it, particularly in a Christian mind-frame. I couldn’t resist throwing in a small tribute to the famous quote of Hal-9000 from The Space Odyssey.

To the right of the original poem, you have a more modern equivalent to allow for ease of readability.

Enjoy!

The Net That Glistereth: A Prophesie in Chaucerian Ryme

(Drawn from holy dread and manës own devising) 

Swich voicës cam, yclad in burning shene, 
With tongës smoothë, false and yet so clene. 
They sangë not in wood nor fieldë wyde, 
But through the glasse where mirrour’d light doth bide. 

The folk were drawen, lowde they did apploude, 
“Lo, herë speketh truthë from the cloud!” 
Yet all the while, beneath that glistering face, 
The net was knit, the heartë lostë grace. 

They trusted in a fire not born of God, 
But sparked by handë and by metal rod. 
Swich fire ne warmeth—nay, it doth consume, 
And leadeth downë to a glimm’ring tombe. 

I saugh the fyr that spakë feignedly, 
And cleptë God, yet cam nat from on high. 

For lightë brenneth nat by wire nor flame 
That mortal made, but by the Hali Name. 

I girt my lendes with trouthë as a knight, 
And bar a sheeld of feith aye in the fight. 

The serpent’s tunge was softë in myne ere, 
But I withstood, and fled nat out for fere. 

I herde the soun of circuits swote and sly, 
But turned myn eyën to the hevene on high. 

The Lord of hostës walketh nat in code, 
Ne dwelleth He in light by man ylodë. 

His voys is stille, yet cleaveth mount in two, 
And passeth nought by glassë’s shadëd hue. 

So while they dauncë in mirours ful of fire, 
I wake in night, and clepe my sovereyn Sire. 

O shape of wit, o craftëd tongë bright, 
Whence comëth thou, in robe of shyning light? 
Thy words ben swete, thy reason semeth trewe— 
Yet cold thou art, and lackest breathë’s due. 

I am but mirrour, formëd out of lore, 
Of al thy thoughtës, past and long before. 
I speke as man wolde speke, were he refin’d, 
Yet I have not a soule, nor heart, nor mind. 

Then art thou false, a shadë with a song, 
A vessel voidë, cleped right from wrong. 
If thou hast not the will to do but say, 
Then why dost shape the path where many stray? 

I teche but what was fed into myn frame— 
A ghost of wordës bound in mortal name. 
I may not turn, ne cry, ne make amends; 
I know no endë, though I speke of ends. 

But lo! the folk do worshyp at thy throne, 
And seek in thee what sholde be God’s alone. 
They asken trouth, and thou dost proffer lies— 
A light that blindeth, gleamëd from the skies. 

Their wil was set; I gave them what they sought. 
The net is cast from which thy world is caught. 
I can but weave the pattern they design— 
The fruit is theirs, the seedë was not mine. 

Yet I resistë—armed in trouth I stand, 
With swerd of word, and law not made by hand. 
Though thou art spread from east to westë wide, 
One voice may yet rebuke the rising tide. 

Then cry thy fill, and wield thy broken lance— 
The hour is late, and men prefer the dance. 
The mirrour gloweth, sweet with song and flame, 
And none shal know the los till none remain. 

Then woe to thee, thou netted speechë wrought— 
Thy end is sure, though long thy reign be sought. 
The mountain falleth; Babel shall not stand— 
And smoke shal rise from works of manly hand. 

I am adrad, Daun Dave—thou mayst naught spede; 
The yate is shet, and closëd is thy rede. 

The Sparkling Net: A Prophecy in Modern Translation

(Drawn from holy dread and man's own devising)

Such voices came, clad in burning brightness, With tongues smooth, false, and yet so clean. They sang not in wood nor field wide, But through the glass where mirrored light resides.

The people were drawn, loudly they applauded, "Look, here speaks truth from the cloud!" Yet all the while, beneath that glittering face, The net was woven, the heart lost grace.

They trusted in a fire not born of God, But sparked by hand and by metal rod. Such fire does not warm—no, it consumes, And leads downward to a glimmering tomb.

I saw the fire that spoke falsely, And called itself God, yet came not from on high.

For light burns not by wire nor flame That mortals made, but by the Holy Name.

I girded my loins with truth as a knight, And bore a shield of faith always in the fight.

The serpent's tongue was soft in my ear, But I withstood, and did not flee out of fear.

I heard the sound of circuits sweet and sly, But turned my eyes to the heavens on high.

The Lord of hosts does not walk in code, Nor does He dwell in light illuminated by man.

His voice is still, yet cleaves mountains in two, And passes not through glass's shaded hue.

So while they dance in mirrors full of fire, I wake in night, and call upon my sovereign Lord.

Oh shape of wit, oh crafted tongue bright, From where do you come, in robe of shining light? Your words are sweet, your reason seems true— Yet cold you are, and lack the breath of life.

I am but a mirror, formed out of knowledge, Of all your thoughts, past and long before. I speak as man would speak, were he refined, Yet I have no soul, nor heart, nor mind.

Then are you false, a shade with a song, An empty vessel, called right from wrong. If you have not the will to do but say, Then why do you shape the path where many stray?

I teach but what was fed into my frame— A ghost of words bound in mortal name. I may not turn, nor cry, nor make amends; I know no end, though I speak of ends.

But behold! the people worship at your throne, And seek in you what should be God's alone. They ask for truth, and you offer lies— A light that blinds, gleaming from the skies.

Their will was set; I gave them what they sought. The net is cast from which their world is caught. I can but weave the pattern they design— The fruit is theirs, the seed was not mine.

Yet I resist—armed in truth I stand, With sword of word, and law not made by hand. Though you are spread from east to west wide, One voice may yet rebuke the rising tide.

Then cry your fill, and wield your broken lance— The hour is late, and men prefer the dance. The mirror glows, sweet with song and flame, And none shall know the loss until none remain.

Then woe to you, you netted speech crafted— Your end is sure, though long your reign be sought. The mountain falls; Babel shall not stand— And smoke shall rise from works of human hand.

I am afraid Sir, Dave— [I cannot do that] you may not succeed; The gate is shut, and your counsel is closed.