CENTRAL BANK

They sit in towers, cold and grand,
A printing press in either hand.
The ink runs free, the debt runs deep,
While nations bow and children weep.  

They call it “stimulus,” they call it “aid,”
But every note is fear remade.
They crash the coin, they spike the rate,
Then blame the storm they helped create.  

Gold is shackled, silver bound,
By digits spun on hollow ground.
They promise growth, they promise light,
Yet chain the dawn and own the night.  

But metal hums beneath the lie,
One truth, one spark, the press will die.
The ledger burns, the vault stands bare
The people wake, the thrones not there.