When the Printer Comes (after Dylan Thomas) Do not go gentle into the printed night, When furnaces blaze with fluorescent light And paper suns eclipse the sky— Rage, rage as the currencies die. They call it rescue. They call it care. They mint new billions out of air. Each note a thinner slice of bread, Each promise backed by future dead. Debasement walks with velvet tread, No gun, no mask—just ink instead. It melts the saver’s patient gold In quiet theft both new and old. But under the roar of the printing drum Another rhythm has begun— A chain of blocks, a fixed decree: Twenty-one million. Scarcity. No vote can swell it, no hand can spin More digits from a vault of wind. Proof of work in fire and sun, Value earned, not overrun. So when the printer comes to sing And markets dance on paper string, Stand with the key in mortal hand— Hard money none can counterfeit or command.