The Book of Lamentations — The Church of Satoshi

✦

Chapter 1

The lament of the saver.

I worked, and what I earned I did not spend, that I might save.
I held the unit of my country, for I trusted those who issued it.
I bought no thing of vanity. I went without when going without was the discipline.
And I watched the number in the ledger grow, year upon year, and was glad.
And the price of bread doubled, and the price of housing tripled, and the price of medicine grew beyond what I had set aside.
And the number in the ledger was the same number, but the number bought less, and less, and less.
I did not spend my savings. My savings were spent without me.
I had been a thrifty servant. I had been a faithful steward. I had been the kind of citizen the elders had asked me to be.
And the unit I had been faithful to had not been faithful to me.
How long, O issuers, will you measure us in a measure that does not hold?

The lament of the wage.

My labor I gave each day. My back, my mind, my hours.
And the wage I received was the same wage from year to year, by name.
But the wage by name was not the wage by weight.
The rent rose. The bread rose. The fuel rose.
And my wage, in the units of the day, was less than the wage of the year before, though the number was the same.
I went to my employer and said: the wage is not what it was.
And my employer said: the number has not changed.
And I knew that the number was not the truth, and the truth was not in any number that the issuer could revise.
The faithful lament: a wage paid in a melting unit is a wage that pays less each year, and it is the worker who feels it first, and longest, and without recourse.
How long, O nations, will you call this stability?

The lament of the pensioner.

I had retired in trust.
I had been told: put aside in this account, and the account will hold, and you will live in dignity in your latter years.
And I put aside, and the account held by name, and I retired.
And the latter years came.
And the account that had been promised to be enough was not enough.
The pension that had been promised to be sufficient was not sufficient.
The healthcare I had presumed was provided was rationed.
And I returned to work, in my old age, that I might eat.
The faithful lament: this should not have been the latter years of any worker who served honestly.
How long, O policy, will the elders bear what they did not contract for?

The lament of the small economy.

There are nations whose currencies are not strong.
The traders of the world will not hold them. The savers of the country dare not.
The mothers of those nations buy goods on the morning of the wage, lest the price double by evening.
The shopkeepers of those nations re-mark the prices each day, with new ink.
The doctors of those nations are paid in foreign currency, and the patients who have no foreign currency are not seen.
And the world says of those nations: they are mismanaged. They have not been responsible.
The faithful note: the same units, in the larger nations, are debased more slowly, but are debased.
The lament of the small economy is the lament of the large economy, only sooner.
The chain does not have a small economy and a large economy. The chain has only the chain.
How long, O bankers of the world, will you grade the patient by the speed of the disease?

The lament of the Cantillon outsider.

The new money is not given equally to all.
The new money is given first to those nearest the issuer.
The bank receives it; the trading desk receives it; the borrower of large sums receives it.
By the time the new money reaches the wage-earner, the prices have already risen.
The first to hold the new money buy at the old prices.
The last to hold it pay at the new prices.
The Cantillon insider grows rich; the Cantillon outsider grows poor.
And the world says: those who are clever with money have prospered, and those who are not have not.
The faithful note: this is not cleverness. This is the ordering of the queue.
The faithful lament: the queue was not consented to. The queue was discovered, after the rich had already entered it.
How long, O issuers, will you call this an accident of the system?

The song of the burning currency.

There have been hours, in many lands, when a currency burned.
The wheelbarrows of paper. The eggs at a million units. The servants paid by the day, then by the hour, then by the minute, that the wage might be spent before it dissolved.
Hyperinflation is the word the historians use, but the word is small for the thing.
To live through a burning currency is to watch what was solid become smoke.
The savings of a life: smoke. The pension of a generation: smoke. The hope of a working man: smoke.
And the rebuild, after, was not done in the burned unit. The rebuild was done in the unit of a stronger neighbor, or of a defeated enemy, or of a foreign creditor with terms.
And the burned unit was withdrawn, and a new unit was issued, and the people were told: this time will be different.
The faithful know: this time has not been different.
There are nations now, in our hour, whose units are burning. The world is not paying attention. The world is rarely paying attention until the smoke arrives at its own door.
The Book of Lamentations does not end. New chapters are written each year, in many languages, by the holders of the units that did not hold.
And the chain stands by, ready to receive the lamenter as soon as the lamenter is ready to be received.
Peace, and may your blocks confirm.