The handwriting seems strange
The language seems terse
There is only a hint of topic
One is left to guess the facts
The mind imagines a long discussion
So many words exchanged
The hour filled with argument
Yet the eyes only see: “The meeting then concluded”
Such a stream of names
One list after another
A mention of a wedding
A short story that gives hints to a longer one
The unwritten seems greater than the written
Yet there are so many things written
Perhaps the story is on another page
Perhaps every question will one day be answered
What is worth remembering?
What is forgettable?
Does more information help?
Will anyone care about the dead past?
Today is is impossible to know,
The future must judge
The work is unearthing the past
Making it available to the future.