Thirty five years
Of blood, sweat and tears.
Punch drunk.
Stubborn fool.
Battering head
Subverting the dread.

Until the brick wall
Is in your face.
Nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide.
Time to face the music,
To realise
The brick wall
Is of your own construction.
Your self-made destruction.

With girded loins
You grasp the reigns
A fell swoop
Into inconceivability
Unfathomable blackness.
Where the soul swims
Unshackled.
Through unenvisaged waters.

So why do they question
If you are happy?
Why you are happy?
While you drift
Upon a felucca down the Nile
Or are embedded within the tapestry
Of an enchanted carpet
Brushing the Sultans’ rooftops?

Because it is true
Each dawn holds such promise
Such untold joy
That beyond this very place
This very time
You charge the demons
Of guilt,
Of disgrace,
Of self disbelief.

A place where language becomes futile,
But being irrefutable.

It is.
It simply is.

You are.
You simply are.