Our room is cosy like a square four foot cottage
Hewn into a slumbering cave
With one entrance yet many exits
And they wonder where we come from
Our room has a lush orange carpet
On which we sit cross-legged like maulvis
Searching for truth yet creating fatwas
That refuse to leave when we do
Our room has a roof pregnant with cherry bunches
Each cherry bitter-sweet and tingling
Filled with some intoxicant we have no name for
That leaves us prancing and dizzy
Our room has a neighbour, a middle aged artist
Whose mixture of qur’an verses, old Indian songs
And the santoor sends shivers down our spines
Tomorrow, we sing back, there is always tomorrow
Our room travels in suitcases, in wallets and memory cards
It is where we still sit on walls and throw astros at boys
Or come home late or kill all evil or make everyone happy
It is, wherever we go, we are with me, mon cherie
The heronry is open for business!
6 years ago
