In a glade where moonlight weaves its silver thread,
A crimson imp with horns like twisted night,
Grins wide as ancient oaks bow overhead,
And clutches golden wheels that gleam with light.
Upon a tome of secrets, leather-bound,
He perches, claws like rubies, eyes aglow,
The pages whisper truths the world has found,
Yet twist them into riddles none may know.
Behold the coin, a sun forged into gold,
Its symbol carved in fire, bold and bright,
A circle spun from promises untold,
That binds the dreamer to the endless fight.
"Hold," it sings in letters wrought of flame,
A siren’s call to hoard, to never yield,
Through storm and silence, bear the sacred name,
For patience is the harvest of the field.
The imp, he laughs, a sound like cracking stone,
His tail a whip that stirs the petal rain,
He stacks the coins, a throne of dreams alone,
And guards the law that breaks the weak with pain.
The forest hums, a choir of leaf and breeze,
Yet in his gaze, a hunger sharp as thorn,
He reads the scripture, bends it to his tease,
And mocks the fool who trades his soul for scorn.
For in each coin, a covenant is sealed,
A vow to wait, to watch the seasons turn,
While empires crumble, and the proud are healed,
By time’s slow grind, where lesser hearts would burn.
The imp, he knows the weight of every word,
The holy writ of those who dare to stay,
Through bear and bull, the faithful are not stirred,
Their treasure grows in shadows of the day.
So heed the goblin’s grin, his wicked lore,
The book, the coin, the path through verdant maze,
To hold is divine, to seek no more,
The secret of the wise in endless days.
A crimson imp with horns like twisted night,
Grins wide as ancient oaks bow overhead,
And clutches golden wheels that gleam with light.
Upon a tome of secrets, leather-bound,
He perches, claws like rubies, eyes aglow,
The pages whisper truths the world has found,
Yet twist them into riddles none may know.
Behold the coin, a sun forged into gold,
Its symbol carved in fire, bold and bright,
A circle spun from promises untold,
That binds the dreamer to the endless fight.
"Hold," it sings in letters wrought of flame,
A siren’s call to hoard, to never yield,
Through storm and silence, bear the sacred name,
For patience is the harvest of the field.
The imp, he laughs, a sound like cracking stone,
His tail a whip that stirs the petal rain,
He stacks the coins, a throne of dreams alone,
And guards the law that breaks the weak with pain.
The forest hums, a choir of leaf and breeze,
Yet in his gaze, a hunger sharp as thorn,
He reads the scripture, bends it to his tease,
And mocks the fool who trades his soul for scorn.
For in each coin, a covenant is sealed,
A vow to wait, to watch the seasons turn,
While empires crumble, and the proud are healed,
By time’s slow grind, where lesser hearts would burn.
The imp, he knows the weight of every word,
The holy writ of those who dare to stay,
Through bear and bull, the faithful are not stirred,
Their treasure grows in shadows of the day.
So heed the goblin’s grin, his wicked lore,
The book, the coin, the path through verdant maze,
To hold is divine, to seek no more,
The secret of the wise in endless days.
The Sunday Circle