The Sovereign Moment of Coin

Away from grasp, a throw of trust,
the disc rises, shining metal.
For a breath, the world takes refuge
in its turning, blind and fleeing.
It holds no memory of hands or wallet,
only the rustle of air that touches it.
A subtle hiss, a new sheet
of open sky, before it stops.

At the peak of the turn, without weight,
it ignores the drama of uncertain future.
It is a point of gold, hung in the wind,
a silent and then revealed horizon.
Its virtue lies entirely in that flash,
in doubt without choice, pure essence.
It knows neither head nor cross, but of full
flight accomplished, devoid of conscience.

Then the plunge, a shadow without haste,
the certain end written in tired air.
It descends, and every edge foretells itself,
an oath that fate denies.
And finally the thud, the verdict is decided,
on the steady plane, cold and indifferent.
But in that journey of its own, silent and precise,
it was queen for an instant.