The black smoke rises, dark in the sky,

A signal, a question—who shall now guide?

From the Sistine Chapel, where silence falls,

The echo of prayers, the breaking of walls.

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In the heart of Rome, under Michelangelo’s grace,

The smoke ascends with an ancient trace.

It tells of a vacancy, of a holy search,

As hope and faith kneel in the church.

For this is no ordinary flame that burns,

But a flame that waits for the people’s turn.

 

The black smoke speaks of decision delayed,

Of sacred whispers in the shadows’ shade.

What choices are made behind those walls?

What promises made, what divine calls?

The smoke ascends, a sign of waiting,

Of souls in prayer, anticipating.

 

From the Sistine’s splendor to the Vatican’s seat,

The black smoke rises, bitter and sweet.

It stirs the world, it stirs the soul,

For the Pope is chosen, the Church made whole.

But in this moment, as darkness swirls,

The faithful watch, as the smoke unfurls.

 

A symbol of transition, of power and grace,

The black smoke gives way to a new face.

And when it clears, as all things do,

The light will shine, the sky will turn blue.

From the Sistine Chapel, the smoke has flown,

A new shepherd rises, to lead us home.

 

Azowue O. Emmanuel

08/05/2025