Like the mead, it hast in richness grown,
Oil, our era's bounty, marks a throne.
Brent's tides high as Skadi's frozen home,
A deficit looms, scarce as Einherjar's comb.

As the dollar, on slippery ice it glides,
In greenback's decline, the market confides.
Fed eyes not the surge, but the lowering tides,
At core inflation's fall, the trader abides.

'Tis a medley of matters, the metals' fate,
Gold's luster dims, as the wolves lie in wait.
Fate hangs on ECB's pendulous rate,
A decision that could the markets' course dictate.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur