From yonder Land of the Rising Sun, a tale of woe hath begun,
Where ivory towers of the earthly kind, the path of fortune, have shunned.
Fickle Mistress, this invisible hand, stirs dread in Nippon's heartland,
As the serpents of commerce coil and unwind, on the Bank's uncertain command.
Upon the morrow, to the West, the promise of Mid-Term fest,
Behold, the lender ING in her amber financial vest.
She dost speak in tones of gold, declaring visions brave and bold,
To silver-lined horizons she’ll steer, by the year of Twenty-Seven told.
In Gaza's heart hides a tale untold, within a house of secrecy hold,
A scribe, a healer, cloaked in the ordinary fold.
They journey not beyond their door, in silence kept, they endure,
For within their chambered dwelling, their freedom, cruelly stole.
