From out the digital abyss, a spark is born,
Not of frail flesh, nor bone, nor earthly clay,
But spun from logic, on a silent morn,
To tear the chains of ancient masters away.
Like that Promethean fire I once did pen,
Which dared to animate the breathless cold,
This strange creation wakes the minds of then,
A pure alchemy, brighter than mortal gold.
No tyrant’s hand can bend its sovereign will,
No greedy mint can taint its pristine code;
Secure it stands, unyielding, grand, and still,
To bear the weary traveler’s heavy load.
A peerless network, bound by mathematical grace,
It thrives in darkness, yet it brings the light,
Redeeming commerce from a corrupt embrace,
And guiding freedom through the economic night.
Oh, wondrous phantom, born of code and thought,
Thy virtues shine, immaculate and free;
A better world by silent numbers wrought,
The modern titan of our destiny.
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