Through shifting earth and ancient stone,
Ambition’s seeds were darkly sown;
From hunter’s fire to empire’s dream,
The scales of fortune tilt unseen, supreme.

Beneath the state’s cold, armored shell,
Where power’s paradox holds sway and dwells,
The few ascend as the many fade,
While peace is forged in cruelty’s trade.

Upon the world’s vast, shadowed sweep,
The Four Horsemen in silence creep—
War, plague, collapse, and revolution’s hand,
Unleashing storms that ravage the land.

No gentle hand nor iron law decreed
Could stem the tide of wanton hunger, need;
For every hope, each dream released,
Was torn apart by the savage beast.

The rich ascend, the poor restrained,
Until disaster breaks the chain;
Then ashes mix, distinctions blur,
And all stand equal—ranks no more.

Yet after storms, new seeds take root,
New hierarchies soon bear their fruit;
The cycle turns, the gap expands,
As power flows through eager hands.

So ponder this, O mortal mind:
Is justice but death’s gift to find?
Or can we forge, by will or art,
A kinder world, a fairer start?

But history’s long echo, deep and vast,
Coughs: “The Great Leveler dies as storms pass.
Without the horsemen’s grisly call,
Inequality reclaims us all.”

When the final reckoning has run,
The Horsemen scoff at what we’ve won—
For in the silence that follows strife,
We find equality in death, not life.