The Silent Conclave
Reflection
In the hushed chamber where shadows linger,
A line of figures in crimson cloaks align.
Their faces veiled, their souls obscured,
A silent conclave of the unseen.
The wooden table stretches like a bridge to nowhere,
A conduit of secrets, a vessel of silence.
Each figure, a mirror of the other,
Yet unique in their silent, unspoken journey.
The light filters through the arched windows,
A soft, diffused glow that casts no shadow.
It speaks of timelessness, of eternity,
Where the present is a fleeting moment.
Their red robes, a symbol of passion or sacrifice,
A talisman of unity or division.
Their hands rest upon the table,
A gesture of calm, a gesture of control.
This is not a room, but a state of being,
A place where the mind transcends the physical.
Here, in the stillness, lies the power of thought,
The quiet revolution of the soul.
For in this silent conclave,
Each figure holds the weight of the world.
Their journey is yours, their silence is your voice,
And in their unity, you find your own strength.