wherein I'll catch the conscience
An Empty Stage
In the presence of this quiet still
I stand in awe of all
The whispers in the air which fill
This room from wall to wall.
What great stories have been told here?
What arias have been sung?
Did they delight a famous ear
In some grand and foreign tongue?
What clown's antics did they laugh about?
Which lover's death was mourned?
What villainy was cast about
While innocents were scorned?
I stand here still beholding
This dark and lonely place
But I can see unfolding
The pageants of our race.
And though the scene that lies before me
Is as stark and cold as death
My eyes paint it in eternal glory
For here, passion was given breath.