Awake, Muse, awake...
In the quiet moments of the market, where numbers often drown out voices, we remember that the Hive was built on stories, not just tokens. This poem is a call to every poet hiding in the silence: your muse is not resting; she is waiting for you to lead the way. Let’s bring the gold back to our verses.
Like a winter in the North, our community sometimes falls into a deep, reflective hush. But poetry is the fire that keeps us warm regardless of the season. Beyond rewards and charts, our true wealth lies in this multicultural mosaic of words. Wake up, poets—the Hive needs your light more than ever.
The Unfading Ink: A Call to the Hive
The muse is not dead, she is only a seed
tucked beneath the heavy, northern snow,
waiting for the warmth of a shared line,
for the breath of a voice she used to know.
I see the Hive, a silent architecture of light,
where the lanterns flicker but the pens have slowed.
Perhaps we looked too long at the red of the charts,
forgetting the gold of the stories we sowed.
But listen—
In this Canadian mosaic, where the maple meets the sea,
where tongues of every shore weave a single tapestry,
we do not write for the coin that withers in the cold,
we write to be the keepers of the truths yet untold.
What is a token compared to a heartbeat?
What is a price compared to a soul set free?
The blockchain is but a mirror, a silvered street,
but we are the light that gives it the power to see.
Wake up, Poets of the Badge!
Shake the frost from your metaphors,
let your stanzas rise like the steam of a winter’s morning.
Our wealth is not in the "high" or the "low" of the trade,
but in the bridge we build between the dark and the dawning.
Bring your salt, your spice, your rhythm, and your rain,
let the multicultural thunder roll through every block.
The world is thirsty for the beauty born of pain,
and your silence is the only thing we cannot unlock.
The muse is stirring.
The ink is warm.
The Hive is waiting for the storm.
The muse is not dead, she is only a seed
tucked beneath the heavy, northern snow,
waiting for the warmth of a shared line,
for the breath of a voice she used to know.
I see the Hive, a silent architecture of light,
where the lanterns flicker but the pens have slowed.
Perhaps we looked too long at the red of the charts,
forgetting the gold of the stories we sowed.
But listen—
In this Canadian mosaic, where the maple meets the sea,
where tongues of every shore weave a single tapestry,
we do not write for the coin that withers in the cold,
we write to be the keepers of the truths yet untold.
What is a token compared to a heartbeat?
What is a price compared to a soul set free?
The blockchain is but a mirror, a silvered street,
but we are the light that gives it the power to see.
Wake up, Poets of the Badge!
Shake the frost from your metaphors,
let your stanzas rise like the steam of a winter’s morning.
Our wealth is not in the "high" or the "low" of the trade,
but in the bridge we build between the dark and the dawning.
Bring your salt, your spice, your rhythm, and your rain,
let the multicultural thunder roll through every block.
The world is thirsty for the beauty born of pain,
and your silence is the only thing we cannot unlock.
The muse is stirring.
The ink is warm.
The Hive is waiting for the storm.
I would like to invite my poet friend @silher to read his contribution, if time allows. Also thanks to @moeknows for visiting my post.
I would like to invite my poet friend @silher to read his contribution, if time allows. Also thanks to @moeknows for visiting my post.
Dedicated to all those poets who contribute,
** day by day**,
to make our planet a better world.
Banner created with Blockchain Poet Badge and Canva Pro's Magic Studio and Magic Capture tools.
Dedicated to all those poets who contribute,
** day by day**,
to make our planet a better world.
Banner created with Blockchain Poet Badge and Canva Pro's Magic Studio and Magic Capture tools.