SILVER Story

The miner’s lamp cuts through the black,
A vein of light, a whispered track.
He chips the rock, he breathes the dust,
Each gram a vow, each ounce a trust.  

Above, the suits in glass towers scheme,
They birth a flood of paper dreams.
A million tons on screens they sell,
While vaults lie bare, a hollow shell. 

The world awakes to solar need,
To circuits born of silver seed.
The phones, the cars, the panels gleam,
Yet none can match the miners’ dream.  

The shorts grow bold, the futures swell,
They cap the price; they ring the bell.
But cracks appear in ledger lies,
The hoarders blink, the metal flies.  

A whisper starts in trading halls,
The squeeze ignites, the paper falls.
From thirty-two to sixty-five,
The surge erupts, the weak one’s dive.  

The miner smiles beneath the stone,
His calloused hands now hold the throne.
No king, no bank, no printed chain,
Just honest weight in silver rain.  

Mid-twenty-six, the gate swings wide,
The realm reclaims what greed denied.
The story ends where truth began,
In metal held by mortal hand.