A Bitcoin poem:
The Ballad of the Invisible Coin
In circuits deep, where shadows play,
A whisper bloomed one fateful day—
A coin not forged by hammer’s might,
But born of code in endless night.
Satoshi’s breath, a fleeting spark,
Lit freedom’s flame against the dark.
No vaults of stone, no king’s decree,
Can chain its dance, so wild, so free.
The blockchain hums, a river’s tune,
A ledger carved beneath the moon—
Each miner’s whirr, a thread of trust,
Weaves gold from air, from dream, from dust.
Through wires it leaps, a phantom gleam,
A rebel’s hope, a tinker’s dream.
No greedy hand can clutch it tight,
It slips like stars through grasping night—
A penny’s worth, a fortune’s span,
It rests in every seeking hand.
Yet shadows creep where light does fall,
False tongues weave snares to trap us all.
But still it shines, unbowed, unbent,
A silent vow, a testament—
To worlds remade, to chains undone,
A coin for all beneath the sun.
So sing its tale, both bold and strange,
Of wealth that shifts, of tides that change.
From Satoshi’s shade, it took its flight,
A spark to set the world alight—
Bitcoin, the gleam no storm can claim,
A riddle wrapped in freedom’s name.
1/n Bitcoin - short story.
The Collapse and the Chain
It started with the flare. On June 17, 2041, a solar storm unlike any in recorded history erupted from the sun—a coronal mass ejection so massive it dwarfed the Carrington Event of 1859. Earth’s magnetic shield buckled. Satellites fried, power grids collapsed, and digital banking systems—already fragile from decades of reckless money printing—went dark. Within hours, the world’s financial arteries clogged. ATMs spat useless error codes, credit cards became plastic relics, and cash, where it still existed, lost meaning as supply chains seized. Billions watched their savings vanish into a void of ones and zeros.
Mira Torres was in São Paulo when it hit. The city’s neon skyline blinked out, plunging 20 million people into chaos. She’d been a data analyst, crunching numbers for a crumbling central bank, but that job evaporated with the grid. Looters torched markets, governments declared martial law, and hyperinflation—already a specter—exploded. The Brazilian real, like every fiat currency, became kindling overnight. Mira bartered her last protein bars for a solar charger and a battered handheld radio, clinging to rumors of a solution.
Want to read more?