The white room is white even in the dark
and at its moonlit door someone is knocking
at the time of night when time is crystal,
all the listeners
listening
listening
to the air that crackles This is London calling
in a space that cracks wide open,
arrowed stars all pointing
to the face of a traveller huddled at a door,
the face of a woman locked into a room
who has found this way to look into my face
and say that she was
listening
when listening
gave her hope that the knock on the door
need not mean fear and a promise would be kept
because someone was
listening.
In spite of running feet and breaking glass,
someone was praying,
someone was saying Don’t panic
and our sweetheart was still singing,
We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when.
The heart hears itself knocking
at the door of a room that is white
even in the dark, and even the dark
is listening.
Imtiaz Dharker
