Drachma's Reincarnation

Lyrics

In two thousand and two, a currency died a quiet death.
The drachma, twenty-five hundred years old, was laid to rest.
We thought the burial was final.
But ghosts have long memories. And so do creditors.

Then came May, two thousand and ten.
The word was 'bailout.' The taste, austerity.
The men from the troika arrived with their briefcases and their terms.
In the shouts on Syntagma Square, a name was spoken.
A whisper at first. Drachma.
Not a memory. A weapon.

You cannot resurrect a currency.
It is not a Lazarus to be called from the tomb.
It is a ghost you summon in a séance of desperation.
The Drachma's Reincarnation...
Was never a plan for the printers.
It was a phantom, haunting the tables in Brussels.

July of 'fifteen. The banks had closed their doors.
Sixty euros a day from humming, empty machines.
Tsipras played his hand against Merkel and Schäuble.
"OXI!" they roared in the Athens heat. No.
And the ghost smiled.
Because a 'no' needs an 'if.'
And the 'if' was the drachma.
A printing press running hot for a year, for a value that would fall before the ink was dry.

You cannot resurrect a currency.
It is not a body waiting for a spark.
It is a collective dream, and the dream had ended.
The Drachma's Reincarnation...
Was a tactic dressed in national pride.
A story told to frighten children and finance ministers.

A currency is a shared story about tomorrow.
The old one spoke of olives and owls.
This new one, this ghost?
Born of spreadsheets and panic.
Printed in secret, its only value the fear it created.
That is not resurrection. It is necromancy.

And so the ghost faded.
The deal was signed. The banks reopened.
The drachma went back to its museum case.
But we learned that the dead can serve the living.
That a name can be a more powerful tool
than a coin you can actually hold.