As echoes of past conflicts start to fade,
The dissipating fog lays bare what’s planned;
Whilst treaties dance upon a blunted blade,
With bloodied fist replaced by sleight of hand.
The broken boughs pollute this new wasteland,
As mended limbs now exhume every crease
And bow and scrape to each perverse demand.
The gongs of war may well begin to cease,
But can the chings of profit broker peace?
— Sam Illingworth