In Poland’s hall, a maelstrom brews in sight,
Oscar-chosen weaver of silver tales,
For in her craft, their sacred wyrd she veils,
A sea of refuge, stirring wrathful might.
‘Cross the dragon-veined mountain, in the East,
A teacher falls, kindling a fierce debate,
Where the wolf cubs roam and the learned wait,
For shield of right to quell the monstrous beast.
In southern lands, where the gold rooster cries,
The Bank, a bulwark stout against the tide,
Holds firm its rate, with hawk's grim gaze applied,
Reflecting Mjolnir's glint in the sky's guise.
