At the Louvre Museum

Amazing how quiet the multitude of viewers
Compared to the works that speak to us
Each visitor drawn to something somewhere here
This woman called to that painting
That man to this one beckoned
We are all ears, and eyes, and awed mute tongues
The only sound’s the shuffle of the masses’ feet
While everywhere the speech of some artist’s work
Resounding over all sounds of the living present
Tell me that even though they may not remember me
I should remember them until I go
While they’ll stay on to speak
To future pilgrims passing through
And I trust I will