Upon the lion's mount, the raven takes its flight,
Where coffers glisten, and hawks prowl in the night.
To win the game, the beast, scarce tamed at best,
Seeks favour 'neath the watchdog's somber crest.

Alas, the hare runs swift, yet not swift enough,
Even in the land where silken dragons bluff.
The grey goat tolls, its burden heavy and grim,
Each grain weighs of sorrow, in the twilight dim.

The sands of time grow bold, unyielding and steep,
Where mighty rivers surge, in finances deep.
The ancient oak climbs, toward heaven's command,
Beyond the moon's reach, in the dollar's land.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur