Gold climbed the hill on whispers of peace,
A shining kite beneath calmer skies.
But the wind of rates blew cold and fierce,
And pulled its golden wings from the rise.

Oil was a river swollen with fear,
Flowing fast through narrow straits.
Yet when the storm clouds drifted clear,
The waters fell beneath their weight.

So markets danced like leaves at sea,
Between hope’s light and caution’s call.
For every rise that greets the dawn,
A shadow waits beyond it all.