In realms of thought, two languages reign:
The poet's verse, the mathematician's claim.
Words, alive with context and hue,
Numbers, abstract, precise and true.

A word, a vessel for meaning's fleet,
Connotations shift with each heartbeat.
"Love" and "hate," such simple signs,
Yet stir the soul with their designs.

But numbers, symbols of logic's art,
Immutable, play a different part.
A "2" is "two," in every land,
Its meaning fixed, like grains of sand.

We imbue our symbols with such power,
Words can make us laugh or dour.
Numbers, too, hold sway over our lives,
In ledgers, formulas, and fiscal dives.

Yet in the end, it's the mind that assigns
The weight and worth of these written lines.
Words and numbers, mere symbols on a page,
Until we grant them meaning's stage.

So let us ponder, in this mortal dance,
The import we give to these symbols of chance.
For in the realm of meaning's sway,
It is we who wield the final say.