The pot once stirred by favored hands
Now bubbles in the commons' lands.
The choicest meat, once set apart,
Now circles back—a work of art.

The table turns with silent grace,
No trumpet blares, no hurried pace.
The lowly seat, once shunned with scorn,
Becomes the throne where truth is born.

A voice once hushed beneath the din
Now speaks where silence once had been.
And eyes that begged for second sights
Now read the stars on fairer nights.

Where power feasted, blind and bold,
It meets the warmth of bread gone cold.
For every time the dice were tossed,
The soul beneath the shadow lost,

Now rises—ash to flame again,
Not out of pride, but earned through pain.
For tables turn not by our will,
But by the hush when hearts grow still.

The one who scoffed, the one who served,
Now walk the line both well-deserved.
No bitter root, no thirst for blame,
Just seasons calling each by name.

And thus, the pot shall feed us all,
Both great and small, both rise and fall.
Let none forget, though fortune churns,
The soul remains when tables turn.