Upon the loom of the eurozone, there lies a tale doth told,
Of bond issuance's meek retreat, aggregates to behold.
Just eight and half a billion yon, at Commerzbank they speak,
The lowest weekly volume rings, culmination's peak.
Mixed echoes rise from the metals' bed, a struggle dire and bleak,
The base runs low, the gold runs high, while global growth stays weak.
In London mourn or London scoff, the story's far from done,
With dawn's light, comes the stifled song, and the battle just begun.
In lands afar, the dollar stands, in strength, in trial, in hope,
Awaiting the Jackson Hole decree, with rising bonds we cope.
In whispers spoke, in silence kept, the Powell speech's sway,
Could usher in a new dawn's song, or fade into the fray.
