In continent's heart, a game of thrones set,
Gods of coin, from Northlands bright and wet.
Marked sequences and monetary conversations,
Risk does ride, 'fore ECB's firm dictations.

Earthmother writhes, in Morocco's hallowed land,
Her quake's fierce might dealt by her own hand.
With keening wails and Hearth-homes tossed,
The slow-given aid, exacts a heavy cost.

And far South in Colombia's verdant fields,
'tis a different crop that the harvest yields.
The white serpents gift grows vast, unbound,
As Bogotá with gentle hand lays down the hound.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur