The Coin's Lament

In vaults of steel, it gleams and gleams,

The currency of dreams, of schemes,

A force that drives the world's extremes,

In every hand, its power teems.

With paper whispers, coinage clangs,

It rules the rich, the poor it wrangles,

A potent potion, a siren's song,

To some, a right, to others, a wrong.

In pockets deep, it finds its rest,

Yet stirs the hearts within each chest,

For what it buys, what it bestows,

Can bring both joy and bitter woes.

It builds great towers, mighty walls,

Yet tears down empires, leaves them sprawl,

It shapes the fate of nations vast,

A force that none can fully grasp.

In hands of few, it wields its might,

A scepter shining in the light,

While others toil, with sweat and blood,

To earn a fraction of its flood.

But in its wake, it leaves a trail,

Of broken dreams and souls impaled,

For where it flows, it often stains,

Leaving scars that long remain.

Yet still we chase its elusive grace,

In endless pursuit, in every race,

For in its grasp, we see a chance,

To shape our lives, to take a stance.

So let us heed its tempered call,

But never let it be our all,

For in the end, it's but a tool,

To navigate this world so cruel.

In wealth or want, in gain or loss,

Let not its grip become our cross,

For true wealth lies in hearts content,

In love, in joy, in time well spent.