This is how it will be.
We will take a walk on concrete, not blue tiles.
You will pretend to be disappointed.
This will have the quality of a ritual.
In the morning the sun will fall from the sky,
We will protect ourselves against its fire.
It is not so unbearable but
We have learnt to be wary of arrivals from the east.
We are unbeautiful here.
Our stay in the plains has made us so.
But whispers now carry endearments.
And we would not have it any other way.
Outside the chapel we will collect ourselves,
Then enter the bowels of its benign shell.
Nothing in here threatens us.
We will pull out our offerings, crisp and new.
This time they will go where they are intended.
The pilgrims are less urgent now
And slowly, the shadow of the deity gains its substance.
In the temple’s deep
I will speak my name for you.