The printer hums, the fresh ink leaves a stain, A fragile globe re-charted through the rain. Along the Gulf, the tankers burn and sway, As oil leaps past a hundred in the bay; The Strait of Hormuz tightens like a bow, While markets tally what the world must owe. Across the steppes, the siren’s whistle cries, As shattered glass reflects the Kyiv skies; Envoy tables empty, pauses cease, A fragile dawn still bargains for its peace. In high halls, border tariffs tilt and weigh, While common kitchens bear the toll they pay. High up in Nepal, river silt runs wide, Where mountain summits plead against the tide, Demanding justice for the washed-out stone, From distant smokestacks neither seen nor known. Yet far above our squabbles and our fears, A lens uncaps toward the outer spheres— The Roman mirror rides a pillar flame, To seek dark stars that have not yet a name. The ticker churns its restless, fevered thread, Of all that broke, and all that leaders said. Fold up the sheet; set down the morning cup— The world still turns, and we must take it up.
