They called it trustless, said no hands would touch
the tokens sliding from one chain to the next,
just code and consensus, nothing so much
as a middleman, no signature, no text
from a bank asking why you moved your gold.
My mother keeps her cash in three glass jars,
under the rice, behind the marigold,
because a bank, she says, is a moving car
you cannot see the driver of at night.
Allbridge said the same thing, dressed in code.
One point six five million took flight
from Solana's dock to Ethereum's road,
no border guard, no ledger left to trust.
Trustless, it turns out, just means nobody's fault.