Of gold, to futures bold, a tale of woe I weave,
A herald's fell decree, its luster doth bereave.
Tensions 'cross Eastern lands, their shadows in retreat,
Heaven's safe demand, yea, from its golden seat.

Once, oil's price stood firm, ensconced in Mid-East fright,
Now, lower does it turn, by more than one percent's might.
Fears, once aflame with reel, do fade in war's discourse,
Yet higher interest real, weighs heavy on its course.

The dollar, noble steed, 'gainst risk found no defense,
By week's end, 'tis decreed, its rise may yet commence.
For Middle Eastern dread, hath ceased its rampant reign,
Data ahead may tread, to raise its worth again.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur