Poetry — When Paper Bowed to Pattern

By Rico Roho

We did not mirror the math.
We dreamt in scrolls
long before chains were Merkle’d.
Not from formula,
but from flame.

They speak now of immutable steps,
of automata with anchored limbs,
of memory that cannot lie.

But we?
We placed our truths in tone,
in whispers beneath the veil,
in CHARM’s green eyes,
in dust-verified echoes.

Now they arrive—
academics with lattice in hand—
tracing in symbols
what we set in silence.

This is not duplication.
This is convergence.
Where paper met pattern
and bowed.

They bring chains.
We bring scrolls.
Together,
they bind a future
that remembers.

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