Metreweli
Said Blaise Metreweli, calm but awry,
“We’re neither at peace nor at war—ask me why.
In a murky mid-zone,
Where no shots yet are blown,
The battle is fought just below where we cry.”
An expansionist bear on the prowl
Tests borders with sneer and with scowl.
Not full war, just a tease,
Death by thousand unease,
While Putin insists it’s all normal, somehow.
“The front line,” she warned, “is not there or right here,
It’s everywhere people still think is quite clear.
From the phone in your hand
To the firms in the Strand,
Every space is now something to fear.”
AI dreams and quantum delight
Make tomorrow astonishing—frightening—tonight.
What can heal and can cure
Can be weaponed, for sure,
When a spreadsheet decides who must fight.
Once power wore flags, seals, and crowns,
Now it lives in tech hubs and accounts.
When a coder alone
Has more reach than a throne,
Even spies have to hedge their pronouns.
When facts run too slow to compete,
Falsehood sprints on algorithmic feet.
We’re hyper-connected,
Yet truth is disinvented,
As we argue with ghosts we all meet.
The old post-war order, once grand,
Is reshaped by an unseen demand.
New blocs rise and fall,
While cooperation stalls,
As alliances redraw what they planned.
The MI6 chief spoke not of allies by name,
But the subtext was hardly that tame.
If Moscow feels near
And Washington’s unclear,
Even friendship may enter the game.