White smoke rises over St. Peter's Square,
The faithful gather, eyes lifted in prayer. "Habemus Papam," the bells declare,
While history's memory trembles in the air.
Another white smoke once darkened the sky,
Human ash on the winds, a different sign.
No bells rang then to mark those who would die,
No crowds gathered hopeful, no joyful design.
Two columns of white, separated by years,
One column of silence stretching between.
Words never spoken, authority clear,
Power that chose what would not be seen.
What weight has a shepherd who tends not his flock
When wolves circle close and the lambs are devoured?
What worth is a key that refuses to unlock
When those behind doors have no time, no power?
The smoke of selection, the smoke of destruction,
Two whites intertwined in memory's chain.
One rises from choice, one from dark production,
Both ask us what silence permits to remain.
When smoke clears away and history stands bare,
We're left with the echo of words never said.
The throne that stayed silent when smoke filled the air
Bears witness still to the unburied dead.
Now white smoke still rises, tradition intact,
While ghosts of the past hover close to the flame.
They ask us to ponder what's lost in the act
Of choosing which sorrows we dare not to name.
