In Damascus' shadows, where new rulers conspire,
U.S. diplomats, hope's heralds, to negotiate aspire.
Could sanctions lift, with Fay's first bloom persist?
Or would their love for freedom, like morning mist, evanesce?
On Russia's moors, old war steeds stir and shine,
Armored relics of Soviet mark, to battle they consign.
In a war song of iron and fire, a requiem of the dove,
They count the cost: eleven thousand dreams, ploughed beneath by rove.
In the world's corners, three faces mask a lie,
Beneath mundane facades, Putin's silent spies hide.
Suburban mum, war scribe, Arctic seer, three threads in a weave,
Championed shadows, veiled by intrigue, in spy fiction they live.
