In the hush before the dawn has learned its name,
where Benin’s red earth still dreams beneath the harmattan’s slow breath,
a creature wakes inside a garden no map has ever drawn,
its fur a spill of nebulae, each strand a comet’s dying flame.
The air is thick with orchid mist, with spores that sing in minor keys,
and mushrooms rise like lanterns from the loam, their caps aglow with amber seas.
Each stem a candle, each cap a moon, they sway in tides no ocean knows,
while fireflies stitch gold embroidery across the velvet of the undergrowth.
The creature’s horns are coral reefs, branched and blazing, soft as dawn,
its ears translucent fins that catch the heartbeat of the world beyond.
Eyes—two polished obsidians—reflect the ledger’s endless scroll,
where every sigh of wind is logged, where every tear is bought and sold.
It sits upon a book the size of altars, pages thick with centuries’ dust,
the vellum cracked like desert lakes, the ink a river turned to rust.
The words are not in Latin, Greek, or any tongue the scholars keep,
but in the quiet grammar of the block, where secrets never sleep.
Across the open folio, five coins repose in perfect, silent rank,
each one a sun compressed to metal, each one a covenant, a bank.
The Bitcoin sigil—bold, austere—burns blue and gold against the skin,
a glyph that needs no emperor to decree what lies within.
The creature’s claws, delicate as frost on spider silk, arrange the stack,
not hoarding, not devouring, but listening to the hush they make.
For every coin is hollow, filled with voices—millions—whispering low,
“I was here, I gave, I trusted,” in a language only code can know.
Around them, the garden breathes in cycles older than the stars,
a lotus opens, exhales light, then folds again behind its bars.
A vine of silver data creeps along the margins of the page,
its leaves are tiny screens that flicker with the ledger’s living wage.
The creature hums—a lullaby of hashes, merkle trees, and proof—
its voice a chord of wind chimes forged in lightning, fire, and truth.
It reads the block rewards halving, the epochs turning like the moon,
the miners deep in distant caves, still chasing the same rune.
It sees the orphan blocks that drift like ghosts in mempool seas,
the uncles left to fade away, the widows of the fees.
It watches Satoshi’s shadow lengthen, then dissolve into the code,
a name that is no name at all, a ghost that bears no load.
And yet the creature does not weep; its smile is wide as crescent bays,
for every line of script is freedom, every nonce a hymn of praise.
The coins are not its fetish, not its crown or scepter bright,
but keys to doors that open inward, into caverns of pure light.
Beyond the garden’s edge, the world still clings to paper kings,
to borders drawn in blood and ink, to bells that toll for things.
But here, the creature turns another page, and in the turning, plants a seed,
a quiet revolution rooted in the soil of human need.
The glowing orbs drift lower now, their light a soft, forgiving rain,
they kiss the creature’s furrowed brow, they trace the contours of its pain.
For even myths grow weary, even guardians of code must rest,
and in the hush between the heartbeats, it lays its head upon the text.
The coins grow warm beneath its cheek, not gold, but living, breathing flame,
each one a star that fell to earth and learned to speak its name.
They pulse in sync with distant nodes, with wallets cold and hot,
with dreams of children yet unborn who’ll trade in what cannot be bought.
And in that pulse, the creature dreams—a dream of markets without chains,
of value flowing like the Niger, unbound by fear or gains.
It dreams of villages in Edo where a single sat can buy
a loaf, a book, a solar panel, a reason not to cry.
It dreams of grandmothers in Lagos sending love across the wire,
of artists paid in fractions for the colors of their fire.
It dreams of refugees with ledgers tattooed beneath their skin,
carrying home in twelve-word seeds when home is wearing thin.
The garden listens, holds its breath, the mushrooms dim their glow,
the data-vine curls tighter, as if it too would like to know
how freedom tastes when spoken in a language stripped of lies,
how trust can bloom in desert places under wide, unblinking skies.
The creature stirs. The sky above begins to pale with coming day.
A rooster made of circuit boards crows once, then fades away.
The book sighs shut, the coins dissolve into a shimmer of pure light,
and in their place, a single seed—transparent, warm, and bright.
The creature plants it in the vellum, in the space between two lines,
where once a king had signed his name, where once a priest drew signs.
The seed takes root in ink and dust, in promises and proof,
and from it grows a tree whose fruit is neither bitter nor aloof.
Each fruit a block, each block a world, each world a choice to make:
to hoard, to share, to build, to burn, to give more than we take.
The creature stands beneath the boughs, its horns now soft with moss,
and watches as the ledger blooms, and counts neither gain nor loss.
For in the end, the coins were never treasure, never goal,
but mirrors held to human souls, reflecting what we hold.
The creature smiles, and in that smile, the garden learns to sing,
a song of roots and satellites, of freedom’s fragile wing.
And somewhere, in Benin City, a child wakes to morning’s call,
her palm already open, ready for the light to fall.
She does not see the creature, does not hear the garden’s hymn,
but feels the seed inside her chest begin to grow within.
The day begins. The market stirs. The old world turns its wheel.
But in the quiet code that binds us, something new is real.
The creature curls into the shade, its duty softly done,
and dreams of all the hands that hold the future, one by one.
where Benin’s red earth still dreams beneath the harmattan’s slow breath,
a creature wakes inside a garden no map has ever drawn,
its fur a spill of nebulae, each strand a comet’s dying flame.
The air is thick with orchid mist, with spores that sing in minor keys,
and mushrooms rise like lanterns from the loam, their caps aglow with amber seas.
Each stem a candle, each cap a moon, they sway in tides no ocean knows,
while fireflies stitch gold embroidery across the velvet of the undergrowth.
The creature’s horns are coral reefs, branched and blazing, soft as dawn,
its ears translucent fins that catch the heartbeat of the world beyond.
Eyes—two polished obsidians—reflect the ledger’s endless scroll,
where every sigh of wind is logged, where every tear is bought and sold.
It sits upon a book the size of altars, pages thick with centuries’ dust,
the vellum cracked like desert lakes, the ink a river turned to rust.
The words are not in Latin, Greek, or any tongue the scholars keep,
but in the quiet grammar of the block, where secrets never sleep.
Across the open folio, five coins repose in perfect, silent rank,
each one a sun compressed to metal, each one a covenant, a bank.
The Bitcoin sigil—bold, austere—burns blue and gold against the skin,
a glyph that needs no emperor to decree what lies within.
The creature’s claws, delicate as frost on spider silk, arrange the stack,
not hoarding, not devouring, but listening to the hush they make.
For every coin is hollow, filled with voices—millions—whispering low,
“I was here, I gave, I trusted,” in a language only code can know.
Around them, the garden breathes in cycles older than the stars,
a lotus opens, exhales light, then folds again behind its bars.
A vine of silver data creeps along the margins of the page,
its leaves are tiny screens that flicker with the ledger’s living wage.
The creature hums—a lullaby of hashes, merkle trees, and proof—
its voice a chord of wind chimes forged in lightning, fire, and truth.
It reads the block rewards halving, the epochs turning like the moon,
the miners deep in distant caves, still chasing the same rune.
It sees the orphan blocks that drift like ghosts in mempool seas,
the uncles left to fade away, the widows of the fees.
It watches Satoshi’s shadow lengthen, then dissolve into the code,
a name that is no name at all, a ghost that bears no load.
And yet the creature does not weep; its smile is wide as crescent bays,
for every line of script is freedom, every nonce a hymn of praise.
The coins are not its fetish, not its crown or scepter bright,
but keys to doors that open inward, into caverns of pure light.
Beyond the garden’s edge, the world still clings to paper kings,
to borders drawn in blood and ink, to bells that toll for things.
But here, the creature turns another page, and in the turning, plants a seed,
a quiet revolution rooted in the soil of human need.
The glowing orbs drift lower now, their light a soft, forgiving rain,
they kiss the creature’s furrowed brow, they trace the contours of its pain.
For even myths grow weary, even guardians of code must rest,
and in the hush between the heartbeats, it lays its head upon the text.
The coins grow warm beneath its cheek, not gold, but living, breathing flame,
each one a star that fell to earth and learned to speak its name.
They pulse in sync with distant nodes, with wallets cold and hot,
with dreams of children yet unborn who’ll trade in what cannot be bought.
And in that pulse, the creature dreams—a dream of markets without chains,
of value flowing like the Niger, unbound by fear or gains.
It dreams of villages in Edo where a single sat can buy
a loaf, a book, a solar panel, a reason not to cry.
It dreams of grandmothers in Lagos sending love across the wire,
of artists paid in fractions for the colors of their fire.
It dreams of refugees with ledgers tattooed beneath their skin,
carrying home in twelve-word seeds when home is wearing thin.
The garden listens, holds its breath, the mushrooms dim their glow,
the data-vine curls tighter, as if it too would like to know
how freedom tastes when spoken in a language stripped of lies,
how trust can bloom in desert places under wide, unblinking skies.
The creature stirs. The sky above begins to pale with coming day.
A rooster made of circuit boards crows once, then fades away.
The book sighs shut, the coins dissolve into a shimmer of pure light,
and in their place, a single seed—transparent, warm, and bright.
The creature plants it in the vellum, in the space between two lines,
where once a king had signed his name, where once a priest drew signs.
The seed takes root in ink and dust, in promises and proof,
and from it grows a tree whose fruit is neither bitter nor aloof.
Each fruit a block, each block a world, each world a choice to make:
to hoard, to share, to build, to burn, to give more than we take.
The creature stands beneath the boughs, its horns now soft with moss,
and watches as the ledger blooms, and counts neither gain nor loss.
For in the end, the coins were never treasure, never goal,
but mirrors held to human souls, reflecting what we hold.
The creature smiles, and in that smile, the garden learns to sing,
a song of roots and satellites, of freedom’s fragile wing.
And somewhere, in Benin City, a child wakes to morning’s call,
her palm already open, ready for the light to fall.
She does not see the creature, does not hear the garden’s hymn,
but feels the seed inside her chest begin to grow within.
The day begins. The market stirs. The old world turns its wheel.
But in the quiet code that binds us, something new is real.
The creature curls into the shade, its duty softly done,
and dreams of all the hands that hold the future, one by one.
The Sunday Circle