In bygone dream of dawning West, hope's tale is told,
As common folk hands to the plough, find dreams of gold.
No more in toil do they perceive a journey's crest,
The fickle dream eludes the grasp of e'en the best.

Yet rests the eagle, her wings of aether turn to clay,
The East stirs the pond, in lays of gratitude do sway.
In Hong Kong's zenith, a candle doth mildly burn,
Japan in silence waits her turn, the Panglossian urn.

The Dragon guards her secrets well, in harshly-honed decree,
The specter of plight 'mongst babes has stirred the WHO's decree.
List host of doubts, on wings of whispers, seen to sail,
In quest of truth, 'midst labyrinth, bygone tales regale.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur