There was a place we used to meet,
Our secret, private, happy retreat.
We shared our cares, our time was sweet,
We called it our little shangri-la.

The lights were low, the music cool,
When I saw you draped across a stool.
To those that approached you were quite cruel,
Before it became our shangri-la.

I stayed well back, you wanted space,
You studied closely each guy's face.
Were you trying to remember another place,
That used to be your shangri-la?

After a while you looked around,
Was it me or the clarinet's sound,
That made you smile as you slowly unwound,
As you enjoyed the atmosphere in our shangri-la?

I took a chance and moved across,
You lit a cigarette, gave your hair a toss.
Your eyes were sad, you weren't cross,
As it became our shangri-la.

From then we used to meet a lot,
We'd discuss our lives, deep in thought,
And you'd show me what you'd recently bought,
Down in our little shangri-la.

Our meetings lessened from week to week,
I sensed you were less inclined to speak,
Not knowing you had grown so weak,
I was missing you in our shangri-la.

A few months passed you didn't appear,
When I heard you'd been ill for more than a year.
Never again would your voice I hear,
In our secret, happy shangri-la.

Written & (c) John McKay Withey 1997