Of Eastern lands where fortunes miss their mark,
In shares of silk, a fading ember stark,
A snail beneath the moon's wan, palest arc,
Whence Covid's ghost doth China's harvest bark.

Yet in the land of sun and ripe vineyard,
Churns unrest, a rabid hound untoward.
Yet suffer not, for soon the goats reward,
As bonds of Spain shall rise, by faith restored.

A hares chance doth loom for Spanish gold,
As echoes of political winds unfold.
A hawk may yet over the doves hold,
Victorious chants, for bonds bought and sold.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur