In a land where the sun seldom sets,

A tapestry weaves through the hands of the Fates.

Threads of gold and silver, tarnished and torn,

A kingdom once mighty, now weathered and worn.

In the market square, the merchants proclaim,

Their wares of illusions, their tales of acclaim.

The people, bewildered, seek solace and truth,

In a labyrinth of mirrors reflecting their youth.

Beyond the kingdom, the storm clouds amass,

Nations like chess pieces, caught in the grasp.

Leaders like actors on a global stage,

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

Reciting old scripts, igniting new rage.

From the towers of silence, the watchers observe,

The rise and the fall, the lines that they curve.

Histories written in ink and in blood,

Tales of ambition, of fire, and flood.

The puppeteers dance in shadows unseen,

Pulling the strings of the living machine.

Promises whispered in corridors dim,

Fading like echoes on the whispering wind.

But in the heart of the kingdom, a whisper takes hold,

A story of courage, of voices grown bold.

The tapestry mends with each hand that it claims,

A future rewoven in the people’s own names.