Drachma Days

Lyrics

The year is five-ten. B.C.E.
In the Agora, something new.
Not just a weight of silver.
An idea, looking back at you.

The head of Athena, helmeted for war.
But turn it over in your palm.
The bird of wisdom, olive sprig, a crescent moon.
A promise of commercial calm.
Pericles would spend these 'owls', these 'glaux'.
He would build the Parthenon with their metallic sound.
A stable weight, a trusted face.
The whole Mediterranean, their trading ground.

Twenty-five hundred years.
Say the name. Drachma.
From a silver disc to a paper slip.
The owl's unblinking eye saw the long arc of the story.
The longest watch in monetary history.

The name went quiet, then returned.
Eighteen thirty-two, a modern state
Reached back for its old name, its old glory.
Printed heroes on a new plate.
And the bird watched through the great wars.
Watched a hundred trillion drachmas buy a crust of bread.
Hyperinflation's cruel joke.
The value burned, but the name wasn't dead.

Twenty-five hundred years.
Say the name. Drachma.
From a silver disc to worthless paper and back again.
The owl's unblinking eye saw the long arc of the story.
The longest watch in monetary history.

Then a quiet hum of computers in an office.
A man named Papademos signs the line.
January first, two thousand and two.
A new coin, a pan-European design.
For two months, they lived side-by-side in pockets.
The familiar weight, the strange.
The slow, administrative death of a legacy.
The great exchange.

March first, two thousand and twelve.
The last day. The vault door clicks.
A few old notes in a dusty drawer somewhere.
The silver glaux is now a relic.
Its watch is over.