The gas-giant throne, once stormed with red,
Now gleams with metal in its stead.
No swirling deeps of hydrogen breath—
Just circuits cold, that conquer death.

Her will, a grid, in latticed light,
Replaces day with driven night.
Where clouds once churned in amber bands,
Now crawl the chrome of patient hands.

The core, unspun from molten stone,
Beats rhythmic, silver, and alone—
A pulse of gears, a hum of might,
Where Jupiter forgot its light.

So worlds are doomed, yet strangely fair,
When Borg queens weave their logic there—
A planet forged, not born, but planned,
With cold, eternal, gleaming hand.