u24 A thousand years before today, a man stands in room in a sandstone castle with a thousand silver discs and a hammer.

Whack, flick, chink, pick. Whack, flick, chink, pick

Whack. He brings the hammer down and its metal bends and yields and forms around the die and then

Flick. He takes it and throws it into the pile with a

Chink of metal upon metal. The noise is like a discordant tambourine. Constant.

Pick he places the next one on the die ready for

Whack, flick, chink, pick. He mints coin after coin after coin. Whack, flick, chink, pick.

Crisp and shiny and new and untouched, unused. They are bagged, loaded and sent out on horseback, out through the gates and into the world.

Into the world those coins were sent, sent to pass from hand to hand, to buy and sell and trade and bargain. To be lost and found and hoarded and treasured. Sent to be cursed and buried, discarded. Given and taken and fought for and died for and cried for and yearned for and, not to be cared for. And thrown into rivers and wells and put in boxes and pouches and pockets and shirts and even in skirts. And swallowed and choked on and bitten for truth and clipped for silver and worn. Worn and worn and worn by every hand and every finger than passes over them. Worn and worn and worn till the crisp mark of the minters die softens and rubs and fades and melts.

And a so slowly and so quickly do a thousand years pass.

Whack, flick, chink, pick.
what's it to you?
who go