In Alstom's firmament, the quill doth etch a tale,
Of kin let loose, for gold's pursuit, to brace a fiscal gale.
In the boughs of profit's tree, pruning's cruel hand,
And thus do lonesome kin, in the wake of commerce, stand.
To temper fiery methane's breath the Union takes its stand,
With rules inscribed in stately ink, across the energy's land.
Thus do flows of power's scent, 'neath European sky,
Now chastened be, with whispers green, and emissions left to die.
Behold the dance of antique gold, and Singaporean crown,
The charts reveal their destined fall, in weeks and months down.
Foretelling notes, to traders sung, in financial bard's report,
Of nations' fate, as currencies their endless waltz report.
