In the high theatre of late empire, three crowns sit crooked on a burning map.
One is gilt and gaudy, worn by a showman who mistakes applause for strategy. He waves a sceptre of sanctions and tweets, promising fire so bright it will bleach a civilisation from the earth .... then flinches at the petrol price on the way to the rally.
One is iron and pitted, hammered in underground foundries. It belongs to a republic that has learned to live under siege, its generals fluent in attrition and martyrdom. They hold a narrow strait in their fist like a valve on the world’s bloodstream, and smile thinly when markets panic.
The third is cracked porcelain, perched on the head of a man who has outlived his own script. He dreams of a final purifying blaze....Tehran, Beirut, Saada all folded into one great offering on the altar of security....yet his quiver is half-empty and his patron’s hand trembles on the purse.
Around them, two distant dragons—one northern, one eastern .... breathe cool calculations into the room. They do not want the table overturned; they want it rearranged. They whisper in the ear of the iron crown, tug at the sleeve of the gilt one, and count tankers like beads on a rosary.
Above all this, the ceasefire hangs like a soap bubble over a bonfire: iridescent, delicate, reflecting every face in warped miniature. It could drift, settle, and harden into glass .... or burst at the next careless gesture, showering the map in invisible cuts.
For now, the world holds its breath, pretending this is peace, when everyone can hear the engines idling just offstage.
THE CARDS ON THE TABLE OF HORMUZ
The board is shaking on a splintered stand,
the candles gutter in a warlord’s hand;
the clocks all mutter between “now” and “late”,
while missiles dream of their appointed fate.
Iran stands rooted, granite‑cold and grim,
threats of ruin rolling round the rim;
you can scorch the skyline, break the bone,
but a nation’s marrow is its own.
Trump stalks the corridors of mirrored doubt,
polls like jackals circling from without;
midterms rising like a tidal wall,
he can’t tell which version of him will call.
One hand hovers on the launch‑code key,
the other checks the price of gasoline;
he roars of “stone age”, “civilisation’s end”,
then softens when the markets bend.
Netanyahu, with his furnace eyes,
dreams of Tehran in a final rise;
Hezbollah scattered, Houthis undone,
a purged horizon under one bright sun.
But his jets are weary, his stockpiles thin,
he needs U.S. fire for the fight he’s in;
and the patron he leans on, loud and vast,
is a weather vane nailed to a rotting mast.
In the wings, two quiet giants lean....
Russia brooding, China cool and keen;
they don’t crave the flame outright,
but markets fevered fleets held tight.
They feed Iran whispers, loans, and schemes,
threading their fingers through Hormuz dreams;
each negotiation, each sly delay,
a move in a longer, colder play.
So here we balance, edge of night,
a ceasefire thin as contrail white;
one stray rocket, one misread sign,
and every red line crosses every line.
Missiles race interceptors through the sky,
debt clocks spin as the hours fly;
each actor trapped in their own design,
each consequence tied to a single spine.
The globe holds steady....barely, not quite....
on a fingertip of fragile light;
one gust of ego, one slip of pride,
and the whole world tumbles down the side.
For now, the cannons mutter in their sleep,
the markets twitch, the watchers weep;
and history waits, with a half‑raised pen,
to see which whim will rule these men.
[email protected]
9 March 2026
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 3:30 PM UTC
In the high theatre of late empire, three crowns sit crooked on a burning map.
One is gilt and gaudy, worn by a showman who mistakes applause for strategy. He waves a sceptre of sanctions and tweets, promising fire so bright it will bleach a civilisation from the earth .... then flinches at the petrol price on the way to the rally.
One is iron and pitted, hammered in underground foundries. It belongs to a republic that has learned to live under siege, its generals fluent in attrition and martyrdom. They hold a narrow strait in their fist like a valve on the world’s bloodstream, and smile thinly when markets panic.
The third is cracked porcelain, perched on the head of a man who has outlived his own script. He dreams of a final purifying blaze....Tehran, Beirut, Saada all folded into one great offering on the altar of security....yet his quiver is half-empty and his patron’s hand trembles on the purse.
Around them, two distant dragons—one northern, one eastern .... breathe cool calculations into the room. They do not want the table overturned; they want it rearranged. They whisper in the ear of the iron crown, tug at the sleeve of the gilt one, and count tankers like beads on a rosary.
Above all this, the ceasefire hangs like a soap bubble over a bonfire: iridescent, delicate, reflecting every face in warped miniature. It could drift, settle, and harden into glass .... or burst at the next careless gesture, showering the map in invisible cuts.
For now, the world holds its breath, pretending this is peace, when everyone can hear the engines idling just offstage.
THE CARDS ON THE TABLE OF HORMUZ
The board is shaking on a splintered stand,
the candles gutter in a warlord’s hand;
the clocks all mutter between “now” and “late”,
while missiles dream of their appointed fate.
Iran stands rooted, granite‑cold and grim,
threats of ruin rolling round the rim;
you can scorch the skyline, break the bone,
but a nation’s marrow is its own.
Trump stalks the corridors of mirrored doubt,
polls like jackals circling from without;
midterms rising like a tidal wall,
he can’t tell which version of him will call.
One hand hovers on the launch‑code key,
the other checks the price of gasoline;
he roars of “stone age”, “civilisation’s end”,
then softens when the markets bend.
Netanyahu, with his furnace eyes,
dreams of Tehran in a final rise;
Hezbollah scattered, Houthis undone,
a purged horizon under one bright sun.
But his jets are weary, his stockpiles thin,
he needs U.S. fire for the fight he’s in;
and the patron he leans on, loud and vast,
is a weather vane nailed to a rotting mast.
In the wings, two quiet giants lean....
Russia brooding, China cool and keen;
they don’t crave the flame outright,
but markets fevered fleets held tight.
They feed Iran whispers, loans, and schemes,
threading their fingers through Hormuz dreams;
each negotiation, each sly delay,
a move in a longer, colder play.
So here we balance, edge of night,
a ceasefire thin as contrail white;
one stray rocket, one misread sign,
and every red line crosses every line.
Missiles race interceptors through the sky,
debt clocks spin as the hours fly;
each actor trapped in their own design,
each consequence tied to a single spine.
The globe holds steady....barely, not quite....
on a fingertip of fragile light;
one gust of ego, one slip of pride,
and the whole world tumbles down the side.
For now, the cannons mutter in their sleep,
the markets twitch, the watchers weep;
and history waits, with a half‑raised pen,
to see which whim will rule these men.
[email protected]
9 March 2026
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