In lands where rivers split the soil, and borders draw a line,
Two cities share the sun and earth, yet fates do not entwine.
One thrives in ordered liberty, the other’s hope grows cold—
Not by gold or ancient myths, but by those for the power they hold.

The seeds of wealth are sown in fields where many voices speak,
Where laws are not the playthings of the cunning or the meek.
A council broad, a restless crowd, a parliament of dreams—
These birth the chance for newness, and the strength to mend the seams.

Yet power’s hand is seldom still; it grips the past with might,
And those who taste its honeyed wine will seldom yield the right.
They build their walls of privilege, their towers of decree,
And fear the storm of change that comes to set the many free.

For every age of rising light, a shadow stalks behind,
The fear of loss, the dread of change, the prison of the mind.
The press was silenced by decree, and rebels stormed the stage,
And all the while, the world awaits the birth of a lesser age.

But history is not a stream that flows in one fixed bed,
It twists with chance and accident, with dreams and with the dead.
A plague, a war, a merchant’s sail, a voice that dares to speak—
These turn the wheel of fortune’s game and lift the low, the weak.

No law of stone or blood or land shall set who will be blessed,
But only how we choose to bind the rulers and the rest.
For when the many shape the rules, and power’s chains are checked,
The soil of hope is watered deep, and futures intersect.

So let the lesson echo out: the world is what we make,
Not by the whims of gods or kings, but by the paths we take.
In every heart, a nation’s fate, in every mind, a key—
To open doors, to break the chains, and set the spirit free.

Let institutions not entomb, but nurture and renew,
For only where the many build can justice come to view.
The past is not our destiny, nor fate a final wall—
But in the hands of all who live, rests the power to rise for all.

And so the wheels keep grinding down the hungry crowds in pain.
As gilded halls ignore the cries and justice dies in vain.
The banquet’s set, the candles drip, the laughter starts to twitch,
At last, the table turns: the poor rise up to eat the rich.