Classic Poem

I gambled with a silver money.
The dried seed-vessels of “honesty”
Were stacked in front of me.
Dry, white years slipping through my fingers
One by one.
One by one, gathered by the Croupier.
“Faites vos jeux, Messieurs.”
I staked on the red,
And the black won.
Dry years,
Dead years;
But I had a system,
I always staked on the red.