Institute

In the quiet cloisters of the Institute,
Where minds are sharpened like a fine‑edged blade,
Scholars labour over parchment and screen,
Their thoughts a steady, unending cascade.

The lecture theatre hums with muted discourse,
While the library’s shelves hold centuries of thought,
Each volume a beacon, each footnote a source,
Guiding the restless towards what they sought.

Here research is not a fleeting fancy,
But a programme woven with patience and care,
Experiments conducted in staid propriety,
Results examined with rigorous air.

The institute stands, a bastion of reason,
Where curiosity meets disciplined grace,
A place where the future is drawn in season,
And knowledge is forged in its steadfast embrace.