The White Smoke.

This morning bloomed with sudden talk,

Of smoke that rose like whispered chalk.

My screen lit up, a sky-bound stream

White puffs that curled inside a dream.

A square in Rome, a swelling sea,

Of waving arms and rosary.

The statues watched, the silence thick

Then bells began their clanging tick.

Habemus Papam! soft but grand,

A phrase I didn’t understand.

Yet something in the way it fell

Felt deep and wide, and almost well.

They said his name: a lion’s cry

Leo, cutting through the sky.

It didn’t growl, it didn’t bite,

It simply stood there, still and white.

He stepped out slow, the marble bright,

He smiled once then caught the light.

A voice began, in gentle tone,

Italian made of breath and bone.

I didn’t know the words he spoke,

But each one rose like strands of smoke.

Not fire, not ash, not heat or harm

Just steady air and open calm.

And I, still in my morning place,

Watched people weep, and cross, and face

The crowd, the sky, the gilded dome—

While I just sat and stayed at home.

No need to know, no need to guess,

Just felt the hush, the hope, the yes.

And let the moment gently float—

A lion, wrapped in clouds and coat.