In the gloaming of an ancient wood, where shadows weave their silent lore,
A crimson imp with ears like sails, sharp as thorns on a raven's door,
Sits hunched upon a mossy stone, his grin a crescent carved in fire,
Eyes gleaming green as serpent's gold, fueled by a covetous desire.
He cradles in his clawed embrace a disc of sun-forged, molten hue,
Engraved with runes of "B" entwined, a symbol born of circuits new—
Bitcoin, the alchemist's wild dream, a coin that mocks the king's own mint,
No vault of iron, no guarded chest, but chains of code, invisible glint.
Before him lies a tome unbound, its pages yellowed as autumn leaves,
Whispers of forgotten tongues in scripts that twist like river thieves:
"Tyiel" and "Hols," arcane decrees, "The Pact of the World," "Bitfice Osleat,"
Verses of pacts with digital gods, where flesh and ether interweave.
In one frame, he peers with wicked joy, the golden orb against his chest,
As if to say, "Behold the key to realms where mortals never rest!"
The book unfolds its cryptic feast: tales of miners in the deep,
Forging thunder from the void, where hashes bloom and secrets sleep.
Another gaze, more fierce and bold, his wings half-spread in twilight's breath,
The coin now gleams in verdant sheen, a parody of fidelity's death—
"Fiat's Fivefold Nation," mocked in edge, "The Fee Litoucts" etched around,
A satire sharp as goblin's blade, where trust in paper turns to ground.
He reads of hodlers in the mist, of whales that swim in ledger seas,
Of forks that split the chain asunder, birthing twins from single keys.
The forest hums with firefly code, each spark a node in vast array,
Where satoshis dance like fairy dust, unbound by night or breaking day.
This imp, the guardian of the glitch, the trickster in the blockchain glade,
Devours the lore of decentralized wrath, where empires fall and fortunes made.
No king, no priest, no central throne can chain the lightning he beholds,
For in his palms, the future pulses—wild, untamed, in red and gold.
Through verses veiled in elven script, he learns the art of private keys,
Of wallets cold as winter's breath, of seeds that sprout in memory's trees.
He chuckles at the fiat fools, their notes as leaves that rot and fade,
While his eternal coin endures, in proof of work, forever staid.
Yet beware the gaze that meets his own, for in those eyes, a bargain lurks—
Trade soul for sat, or wisdom's spark, in worlds where code and chaos merge.
The goblin's book, a grimoire grim, binds crypto spells in ancient rhyme,
A thorough tale of rebellion's seed, sown deep in the soil of time.
Thus spins the wheel of digital fate, in forests where the wild bits roam,
An imp's delight, a mortal's quest, the Bitcoin saga carved in stone—
No highlights needed in this verse, for every line ignites the spark,
Of freedom's forge in goblin hands, illuminating the endless dark.
A crimson imp with ears like sails, sharp as thorns on a raven's door,
Sits hunched upon a mossy stone, his grin a crescent carved in fire,
Eyes gleaming green as serpent's gold, fueled by a covetous desire.
He cradles in his clawed embrace a disc of sun-forged, molten hue,
Engraved with runes of "B" entwined, a symbol born of circuits new—
Bitcoin, the alchemist's wild dream, a coin that mocks the king's own mint,
No vault of iron, no guarded chest, but chains of code, invisible glint.
Before him lies a tome unbound, its pages yellowed as autumn leaves,
Whispers of forgotten tongues in scripts that twist like river thieves:
"Tyiel" and "Hols," arcane decrees, "The Pact of the World," "Bitfice Osleat,"
Verses of pacts with digital gods, where flesh and ether interweave.
In one frame, he peers with wicked joy, the golden orb against his chest,
As if to say, "Behold the key to realms where mortals never rest!"
The book unfolds its cryptic feast: tales of miners in the deep,
Forging thunder from the void, where hashes bloom and secrets sleep.
Another gaze, more fierce and bold, his wings half-spread in twilight's breath,
The coin now gleams in verdant sheen, a parody of fidelity's death—
"Fiat's Fivefold Nation," mocked in edge, "The Fee Litoucts" etched around,
A satire sharp as goblin's blade, where trust in paper turns to ground.
He reads of hodlers in the mist, of whales that swim in ledger seas,
Of forks that split the chain asunder, birthing twins from single keys.
The forest hums with firefly code, each spark a node in vast array,
Where satoshis dance like fairy dust, unbound by night or breaking day.
This imp, the guardian of the glitch, the trickster in the blockchain glade,
Devours the lore of decentralized wrath, where empires fall and fortunes made.
No king, no priest, no central throne can chain the lightning he beholds,
For in his palms, the future pulses—wild, untamed, in red and gold.
Through verses veiled in elven script, he learns the art of private keys,
Of wallets cold as winter's breath, of seeds that sprout in memory's trees.
He chuckles at the fiat fools, their notes as leaves that rot and fade,
While his eternal coin endures, in proof of work, forever staid.
Yet beware the gaze that meets his own, for in those eyes, a bargain lurks—
Trade soul for sat, or wisdom's spark, in worlds where code and chaos merge.
The goblin's book, a grimoire grim, binds crypto spells in ancient rhyme,
A thorough tale of rebellion's seed, sown deep in the soil of time.
Thus spins the wheel of digital fate, in forests where the wild bits roam,
An imp's delight, a mortal's quest, the Bitcoin saga carved in stone—
No highlights needed in this verse, for every line ignites the spark,
Of freedom's forge in goblin hands, illuminating the endless dark.
The Sunday Circle