Cycle

The market climbs, a vibrant vine,

Numbers bloom, a verdant sign.

Investors preen, with pockets lined,

But whispers rise, a chilling kind.

For just as day gives way to night,

So too must profits take their flight.

The crash descends, a sudden blight,

Red arrows pierce, a fearsome sight.

No hand can stay the turning tide,

No spell can hold the gains inside.

The cycle spins, a force we can't hide,

As sure as Kenya's sunset's stride.

The wise investor bows their head,

For crashes come, as seasons spread.

They weather storms, in markets bred,

Knowing new dawns will overhead.