Hush I hear them now
Whispers behind closed doors
To secrecy all must bow
Lie still to hear this folklore:




There is a land far away
Upheld by stories of old
A place where none can stay
Memories are like treasured gold

It beckons all who hear its name
They go to live, to learn, and to Be
Ever-changing, never quite the same
A visit to that land: Cheniere au Tigre

To get there presents a riddle
So far, so close, and conveniently remote
Not by land or air, but somewhere in the middle
One travels only by boat

So close to the edge of forgotten
Cheniere au Tigre waits
In young minds stories are caught
And in dreams, they create

The land lives and breathes
Inhales in, Exhales out
Kept quiet by a blanket of leaves
While waves gently soothe throughout

Under its shady oaks
Or among the wispy reeds
Ancestral paths arise and evoke
The past and her entities

There is a magic of the air
That stirs in each passerby
To give a moment knelt in prayer
Or to let out a small cry

Through time it has stood
Although battered and near lost
As a symbol of that which is good
To say: Do what you must

Life takes us many places
Some close and others too far to see
Despite the journey and warm embraces
None are as lovely as Cheniere au Tigre

Cats are of the night
dogs are of the day
when the docile lie asleep
the prowess comes out to play

When the shadows fall thick
and darkness presses low
there is a lingering urge
that only the devious know

It caresses softly
then awakens from within
a feeling which says,
the game will soon begin

Slowly each one emerges
in the cover of the dark
farewell to the white and clean
get ready, on your mark

In hordes they muster
with shameless glee
inside dank alleyways
and on crooked streets

With serpentine movement
across grimy floors
they tempt the innocent
always offering something more

They're bold and daring
tossing bets up high
they scoff at charity
imposing their fiercest war cry

Indulging in scandal
they live for the night
and must disband and scatter
with the first morning light

Their existence may be brief,
blurred, and unknown
their days spent in hiding
from those who cast stones

But despite the sadness
they will never stoop to cry
it is from being society's outcast
that they draw their pride