In the far-off chair of imagination
Sits a child, an orphan boy of o’er twelve.
The matron locks the attic door
And hustles to the radio downstairs.
The solitary child shakes his soul
And creeps to the wonderful window.
The moon charges in the dark;
Slaying fat, grey clouds in her path.
At last, she rests her round head
On the dome of the silver mosque.
The congregation unfolds in the garden
That Allah has blessed tonight.
Thank you, Mother and Father.
Thank you, Brother and Sister.
Had I been blissful, I wouldn’t know.
But I am a servant of Allah.
Dwelling in the future’s peaceful timbre,
The orphan boy stifles a yawn.