For the most part, he labours in solitude,
Even when others approach, they seldom pay him notice.
He isn't much to look at, in faded jeans and a worn cotton shirt.
He doesn't mind though, for they don't come to see him, they never have.
And why would they? Most are wholly shrouded in a fog of memory and grief,
Scarcely aware of the world before their eyes.
It has always been thus, whether in Rome, Mesopotamia or London-town.
In each time and place, he assumed inconspicuous form,
Blending in, going peaceably about his task.
Throughout his timeless watch, he has laid countless souls to rest,
No matter the hue of their skin,
Emperor or serf, chieftain or slave,
All come to equality in motionless silence.
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