তরলতা শুকিয়ে যাওয়ায়

তরলতা শুকিয়ে যাওয়ায়

আমি AST-এর 3টি རাত্রিরইচ্ছড়—প্রতিটি snapstanzan a poem, Wall Street-এর analyst-এরওখনওলিক।দাম 0.041887থেকে 0.043571-এ上升,পথন 0.041531-এ plunge—অসঙ্গটা,বজনগণভসপটশ।

DeFi-তে,তরলতা ‘উপলব’হওয়ায়ইন।এটি trust and code -এर between rhythm।যখন trading volume 108k-এ rise,হইফy—হইফ。exchange rate flickers glass at dawn: 1.78换手率—not a metric—it’s an echo of who still believes in open access.

The River That Doesn’t Flow

গতকালি,আমি my mother’s poems beside my father’s terminal screens।She once wrote: ‘The market is never dry; it forgets how we hold our breath.’ And here? AST moves like that river—sometimes full,sometimes starved—always singing.

The highest price? 0.051425 USD—a fleeting note before the fall.

The lowest? 0.03684—a whisper that lingers long.

We call this volatility ‘risk.’ But I call it poetry written in blockchain ink.

What We Forgot to Measure

You don’t need to chase trends. You need to sit quietly—and listen when the numbers breathe. AST doesn’t promise stability. It remembers you’re still here. And so do I.