The Silent Glass

Brass dials locked in oxidized sleep, beneath a canopy of creeping vine and dust, the great lens points upward toward the void, waiting for the return of familiar constellations that long ago shifted from their moorings.

Shadows drag across the cracked mosaic floor, marking the passage of unnamed hours, while the domed roof, split open to the sky, allows the rain to map new nebulas upon the rotting wooden tables below.

No human eye peers into the dark anymore, only the hollow gaze of the glass itself, reflecting the slow turning of the galaxy, a silent sentinel holding the cold memory of a thousand forgotten nights.