Preserving Sanctuary

Time,
And the restless city,
Forgot old Selwyn Lane.

Its weathered buildings,
Once alive with commerce,
Slowly emptied.

Doors closed.
Windows gathered dust.
One by one,
Their occupants
Simply went elsewhere.

Although some remain empty
To this day,
All quietly found
New custodians.

Purchased,
Not by developers,
Nor speculators,
But by club members
Of Nocturna.

Many gifted their buildings
To the club itself,
Allowing the sanctuary
To grow
Patiently,
Silently,
One adjoining wall at a time.

Behind ancient brickwork,
Doorways became archways.
Storerooms became libraries.
Warehouses became museums.
Forgotten offices
Became quiet reading rooms,
Cabinets of curiosities,
Map vaults,
Conservatories,
Trade halls,
And discreet apartments
Reserved for distinguished guests.

To the city,
The block still appeared
Forgotten.

Weathered.
Half abandoned.
But appearances
Have always been deceiving
When it comes to Nocturna.

Within those old walls,
Life quietly flourished.
Books found readers.
Collectors found discoveries.
Artists found inspiration.
Friends found one another.

And every twelfth night,
of the month,
The sanctuary grew
A little richer.

Nocturna is no longer
Merely a private club.
For many,
It has become
A way of life.

An entire city block,
Quietly devoted to curiosity,
Craftsmanship,
Scholarship,
Wonder,
And the preservation
Of beautiful impossibilities.