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The Black-Scholes Equation
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By: Deborah Lowi
Competition Year: 2013 Votes (3) | Comments (0) |
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Whispers of doubt dare not damage her pride.
For an army of quants - masked, worn and turbulent,
Clutch her. Race to gain the monetary reward, prize.
Behind her swarms a sea of truth. Lies. Predictions.
Volatility sigma sways to the sweet lullaby of Brownian motion,
Whilst a stock price struggles as he clutches to ride her wave,
Prediction looms. A market storm headed towards the ocean.
Quants cry, yearn, despair as they wrestle the thunder,
Dear beauty’s sterling wonder, how can it be merely slander?
Calls fall and demolish, vaporised in pain,
Black Monday claims her glory, establishes her reign.
A Black Swan of great might, she roars delight,
Like a nepenthes drowning her prey, mercilessly she sways.
Black-Scholes lies powerless, sojourns on the sea bed,
Her predictions now worthless, nothing more can be said.
A mathematical beauty, defeated and bruised,
Her soft parameters bewildered; paralysed, subdued.
The Black Swan was victorious, this time, she whispered.
Black-Scholes. She glistens.
