They gather under ancient arches,
each red robe a shadow of tradition,
each face worn by prayer and power.
The doors close with a groan of history,
locking the world outside.

Inside,silence hums like a held breath.
The ballots,folded like whispered hopes,
pass from hand to flame.
Smoke curls skyward,
colorless,then gray,then black-
until white rises,and the Vatican stirs.

Not one among them is untouched
by the weight of invisible crowns.
They do not choose lightly,
though the world waits with restless eyes.

The chosen does not speak at first.
He stands,smaller than the moment,
his name no longer his own.
Only the wind knows what he has left behind.