The white room is white even in the dark
and at its moonlit door someone is knocking
at that time of night when time is crystal,
all the listeners
listening
listening
to the air that comes alive and crackles
This is London calling
to a space that cracks wide open,
its winds rising, its tides falling
and arrowed stars all pointing
to the face of the traveller huddled at the door,
to the face of a girl with a bullet in her head,
her heart set on learning,
to the face of a woman locked into a room
half a world away, who has found this way
to look into my face and say to me that she was
listening
when listening
gave her hope that the knock on the door
Is there anybody there? need not mean fear
listening
in a throng of languages and rooms turned luminous.
In spite of running feet and breaking glass,
someone was still praying. Someone was saying
Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
There were people laughing
and at our door, our sweetheart was still singing,
Goodnight boys, goodnight. We’ll meet again,
don’t know where, don’t know when.
When we stop in the quiet moonlight, stop
at the very start of silence,
the heart meets its own language
and hears itself
knocking
knocking
at the door of a white room
that is white even in the dark, and even the dark
is listening.
