In Middle Earth's realm, the base metals ascend,
Whilst golden gleams wane 'neath London's gray bend,
The Norse god's eye held on Eastern contention,
In land where lie Israel's axe and dimension.
In the kingdom of Britons, the hearths of men stand,
Yet their gain is but meager, less than sea's strand,
The houses of men, in their worth do they anchor,
Fall behind the swift rise of the month's candle maker.
On Poland's cold steppes, a saga unfolds,
Tusk, a hero returned, in his hand power he holds,
Though the Law's mighty hammer sought to silence the crowd,
Its strike fell too short, its voice not enough loud.
