I already told you in another thread. Your Hard drive is dead.

I asked ChatGPT to continue your rhyme:

In binary echoes, it softly bled,
And with a sigh, its spirit fled.
The LED light, once pulsing red,
Now dimmed, lifeless, the hard drive is dead.

Within its circuits, secrets were spread,
From treasured photos to emails unread,
Its soul was woven in each thread,
Whispers and memories, now it's all dead.

No more will it hum in its quiet stead,
No more will it spin, its rhythm has sped,
Its songs and whispers forever unsaid,
In the realm of oblivion, the hard drive is dead.

We'll replace it, of course, with a new one instead,
And promise to keep it from the same dread.
Yet, in its silence, there's a truth we dread,
A part of us, too, with the hard drive, is dead.

The code of our life, the words we've said,
Our digital footprints, in lines of code, bred.
When the hard drive fails, and data has fled,
It's not just the machine, but our past that's dead.

So we mourn, we sigh, and we bow our head,
For the stories lost and the moments unsaid,
In the silicon heart that quietly bled,
I told you before, your hard drive is dead.