A small village near Cairo,
a narrow gravel road,
the chilly evening breeze,
a pile of drinking glasses,
a pot of boiling ``ink tea'',
and prayers in the silence
as we await the master.
The rumors said that he
is stopping here tonight,
and rumors never lie
in our village town --
that's what they always say.
The rumors say that he
will sit and tell the story;
the one which has no ending
and which never begins.
Perhaps he'll come tonight,
perhaps he never will,
we do not really care.
The story has been told,
and it will never end.
So catch it in the middle,
or catch it at the end,
or chant it in your prayer.
Those present who have ears
can hear it all the time
without the story teller;
and those who need to wait
to hear it wait until
'tis they who tell the tale.
