In the gilded halls of Lydia’s throne,
Where gold flowed like rivers untamed,
Sat Croesus, the king on his pile of stone,
Enthroned in his vanity, richly proclaimed.
“Oh Solon, wise sage from the Attic shore,
Gaze upon my treasures, my opulent hoard!
Have eyes ever feasted on riches like these before?”
But Solon just smiled, unimpressed, unbored.
“Peacocks,” he murmured, “with feathers aglow,
Outshine all your baubles, your glittering chains.
Their beauty is free, not bought with your woe.”
Croesus puffed up, his ego in flames,
“Vanquished foes! Conquered lands! Bow to my might!”
Yet Solon demurred, with a sage’s calm art:
“The happiest soul? A peasant’s delight –
Hard toil, humble hearth, contentment at heart.”
Insulted, the king waved the wise man away,
His greed like a mirror, reflecting his pride.
But Fate, that sly jester, had mischief at play –
First, son slain in hunt, a arrow’s cruel tide.
Then Cyrus arose, with his empire’s fierce roar,
Swept through like a storm, leaving ruins in wake.
Croesus captured, defeated, his kingdom no more,
Bound to a pyre, for hubris’s sake.
As flames licked the wood, in despair’s final breath,
He wailed “Solon! Solon!” through smoke’s bitter veil.
Cyrus paused, curious, staving off death,
To hear the king’s tale of fortune’s frail sail.
“How wealth is a phantom, a vain, fleeting dream –
The poor man finds joy in life’s simple refrain,
While kings chase illusions, till Fate intervenes,
Turning opulence to ashes and pain.”
Moved by the irony, Cyrus set free
The once-mighty miser, now humbled and wise.
They bonded as friends, in philosophy’s glee –
But oh, what a satire, this twist of the skies!
For greed’s golden idol, so vain and so grand,
Crumbles to dust in humility’s hand.
Let tycoons take note, in their towers of glass:
Vanity’s throne is a pyre – pass the match, alas!
