We sixteen, random chosen, silent now,
enter this, the long waiting,
of dark wood and tapestry.

It is the language of another age,
one of brass and gavels,
and court barkers.

And here, in our midst,
a half finished jigsaw.

Our predecessors,
ghosts now, long gone,
invite us in their absence
to contribute pieces to a whole
that might never be known –
not to us, nor to those who follow,
in the slow accretion
of coming days and weeks.

It is an apology perhaps,
a puzzle to ease the time.
But our time feels small
in this place of eternal waiting.

Yes, we might venture a piece or two,
but there seems a greater elegance
in its incompletion,
and none touch it.