In halls of marble, whispers weave the night,
Shadows dance where power takes its flight,
A silent game, where few might see,
The puppet strings of history.

Beneath the gilded chandeliers’ glow,
Decisions made in whispers, soft and low,
Faces masked with crafted grace,
Yet power’s grip leaves no trace.

Promises, like mirrors, often break,
In the corridors, where intentions shake,
Loyalties shift like the desert sand,
In the ruthless quest for command.

The dance of power, relentless and cold,
A game as ancient as stories told,
In politics, where shadows play,
The true cost, few dare to say.