In the hush of lamplight, amber and low,
a man leans close to the table’s dark glow,
his hoodie a shadow of slate-colored wool,
its hood fallen back like a monk’s humble cowl.
His beard, softly curled, frames a face etched with thought,
the faint lines of wonder, of battles long fought;
his eyes, dark and narrowed, reflect golden fire,
as if chasing a comet through circuits and wire.
Two coins, thick as medallions, heavy in his hands—
gold-rimmed, Bitcoin-stamped, the cipher of lands
where numbers are sovereign and ledgers don’t sleep,
where trust is a hash and the future runs deep.
He cradles them gently, as shepherds count sheep,
or priests lift the host when the faithful ones weep;
their edges are serrated, a quiet rebuke
to paper that falters, to promises shook.
One presses near his cheek, a cold metallic kiss,
its surface engraved with a future remiss
of banks and of bailiffs, of kings and their thrones—
a circle of freedom in satoshis and stones.
The other hovers above the book’s open abyss,
its shadow a halo, a digital bliss;
the coin catches light like a sun trapped in brass,
while the pages beneath it lie still as cut glass.
The tome is a veteran, its binding worn thin,
pages creased like old skin from the weight of within—
left column: the jargon of nodes and of blocks,
right column: the margins where fortune unlocks.
The text speaks in fragments—of halvings, of fees,
of miners in deserts, of whales in the seas;
it murmurs of forks and of chains that divide,
of lightning that strikes where the old systems hide.
Between them the coins and the book form a trine,
a triangle sacred, a covenant divine:
the metal, the message, the man in between,
translating the cipher of what might have been.
His breath fogs the surface, a faint silver mist,
as if he could taste what the future has kissed—
the tang of electrons, the scent of the new,
the hush of a ledger that no one can skew.
The room behind him dissolves into blur,
a vase on a shelf, a chair’s quiet demur;
the lamp on the table spills molten and slow,
its filament humming a soft undertone.
The wood of the table is scarred by the years,
by coffee rings, pen marks, by hopes and by fears;
it bears the faint imprint of elbows and dreams,
of nights spent in silence, unraveling schemes.
He is scholar and pilgrim, alchemist, seer,
a cartographer mapping the frontier of fear;
his fingers trace circuits invisible there,
where value is weightless, yet heavier than air.
The Bitcoin gleams like a sun in his palm,
a talisman forged in the crucible’s calm;
the text lies beneath it, a psalm within psalm,
its verses a bridge from the storm to the balm.
And still he leans closer, as if to inhale
the essence of proof-work, the weight of the trail
blazed by a phantom who vanished at dawn,
leaving only the code and the will to go on.
The coins are his relics, the book is his creed,
together they whisper: *You plant what you need.*
In the quiet of morning, before the world wakes,
he tends to his garden of immutable stakes.
The lamp flickers once, then steadies its glow,
casting long shadows that ebb and that flow;
the man does not notice, his world is the page,
the coin, and the silence that turns with the age.
For here, in this circle of light and of lore,
he holds the new scripture, and asks for no more—
a prophet of profit, a keeper of keys,
decoding the future on bended knees.
a man leans close to the table’s dark glow,
his hoodie a shadow of slate-colored wool,
its hood fallen back like a monk’s humble cowl.
His beard, softly curled, frames a face etched with thought,
the faint lines of wonder, of battles long fought;
his eyes, dark and narrowed, reflect golden fire,
as if chasing a comet through circuits and wire.
Two coins, thick as medallions, heavy in his hands—
gold-rimmed, Bitcoin-stamped, the cipher of lands
where numbers are sovereign and ledgers don’t sleep,
where trust is a hash and the future runs deep.
He cradles them gently, as shepherds count sheep,
or priests lift the host when the faithful ones weep;
their edges are serrated, a quiet rebuke
to paper that falters, to promises shook.
One presses near his cheek, a cold metallic kiss,
its surface engraved with a future remiss
of banks and of bailiffs, of kings and their thrones—
a circle of freedom in satoshis and stones.
The other hovers above the book’s open abyss,
its shadow a halo, a digital bliss;
the coin catches light like a sun trapped in brass,
while the pages beneath it lie still as cut glass.
The tome is a veteran, its binding worn thin,
pages creased like old skin from the weight of within—
left column: the jargon of nodes and of blocks,
right column: the margins where fortune unlocks.
The text speaks in fragments—of halvings, of fees,
of miners in deserts, of whales in the seas;
it murmurs of forks and of chains that divide,
of lightning that strikes where the old systems hide.
Between them the coins and the book form a trine,
a triangle sacred, a covenant divine:
the metal, the message, the man in between,
translating the cipher of what might have been.
His breath fogs the surface, a faint silver mist,
as if he could taste what the future has kissed—
the tang of electrons, the scent of the new,
the hush of a ledger that no one can skew.
The room behind him dissolves into blur,
a vase on a shelf, a chair’s quiet demur;
the lamp on the table spills molten and slow,
its filament humming a soft undertone.
The wood of the table is scarred by the years,
by coffee rings, pen marks, by hopes and by fears;
it bears the faint imprint of elbows and dreams,
of nights spent in silence, unraveling schemes.
He is scholar and pilgrim, alchemist, seer,
a cartographer mapping the frontier of fear;
his fingers trace circuits invisible there,
where value is weightless, yet heavier than air.
The Bitcoin gleams like a sun in his palm,
a talisman forged in the crucible’s calm;
the text lies beneath it, a psalm within psalm,
its verses a bridge from the storm to the balm.
And still he leans closer, as if to inhale
the essence of proof-work, the weight of the trail
blazed by a phantom who vanished at dawn,
leaving only the code and the will to go on.
The coins are his relics, the book is his creed,
together they whisper: *You plant what you need.*
In the quiet of morning, before the world wakes,
he tends to his garden of immutable stakes.
The lamp flickers once, then steadies its glow,
casting long shadows that ebb and that flow;
the man does not notice, his world is the page,
the coin, and the silence that turns with the age.
For here, in this circle of light and of lore,
he holds the new scripture, and asks for no more—
a prophet of profit, a keeper of keys,
decoding the future on bended knees.
The Sunday Circle