 Let's blethar some more about doors, revolving doors and sliding doors. Half opened, half closed. The door with your name in it. The heavy one, hard to open. The one you walked out when your heart was broken. The one you walked in as you came to your profession and the tiny door when you made your confession. The school door at the end of a lesson. Yes, shut the door in Gaelic is Doon and Doris. The wee door in your doll's house or Ibsen's Nora's door or Chekhov's three sisters. Doors imagined by writers the world over. Proust and the chickens coming home to Roost. Or Chris Guthrie's open heart at the end of Sunset Song or the step left when the horse is gone, the haw, the door to the stable bolted after the horse left. Not Tamashanta's tailless horse. The one that's shut violently behind you, banged by a sudden wind. The painted red door code for asylum seeker. The X that says plague or pass over. The one turned into a boat to cross the ever widening waters. The North Sea and the Aegean reminders of the people cleared off their lands out their crufts to whom the sea was their threshold on, off. Take the big key and open the door to the living breathing past, the one you enliven over and over to the ship's port, the house of the welder to the library door of Donald's Jewer. Then picture yourself on the threshold, the exact moment when you might begin again, a new sitting, new keys, jingle possibilities. Hope comes with a tiny gray flyers bobby keering. Then come through to this parliament, new session, past round the revolving doors, change in the revolutions, 360 degrees, taken the mirrored opposites, the Dutch cables, the cross cables. Here, rising out of the sloping base of Arthur's seat, straight into a city, a city that must also speak for the banks and the braze, man rows, cairns, bothys, songs, art, poems, art, stories. And don't forget the Cailies. Who doesn't he love a Cailie? A city that remembers the fiddlers of Orkney and Shetland, the folk of Collinsay, Butte and Tyree, the inner and outer Hebrides, the glens and the bends, the trees and the rivers and the burns and the locks and the sea locks. And Nessie, the granite city, Dumfries and Galloway, the dear green place and Dundee, across the stars and galaxy, the night sky's tiny keys, the hail clan Jamfrey. Find here what you are looking for, democracy in its infancy, guard her like you would a small daughter and keep the door not just wide out, not keep the door wide open, not just a jar. And say in any language you please, welcome, welcome to the world's refugees, Scotland's changing faces. Look at me, whose birth mother walked through the door of a mother and baby home here and walked out of Elsie Ingalls hospital without me, my macker, her daughter, macker of fairly lead and gallous tongues. And this is my country, says the Fisherwoman from Dura. Mine too, says the child from Canna and Iona. Mine too, says the brain family. And mine, says the man from the Polish deli. And mine, said the brave and beautiful Asid Shah. Me too, said the black scot and the red scot, said William Wallace and Mary Queen of Scots, said both the Roberts and Muriel Spark, said Emily Sandy and Arthur Wharton, said Ally Smith and Edwin Morgan, said Liz Lochhead, Norman and Sorley and mine, said the Syrian refugee. Here we are in this building of pure poetry on this July morning in front of Her Majesty. Good day, ma'am, ma'am, good day, good morning Helen and John Kay, great believers in democracy and in geeing it laldey. Our strength is our difference, dinny fyrrit, dinny co canny. It takes more than one language to tell a story. Welcome, one language is never enough. Welcome, it takes more than one language to tell a story. It takes one language to tell a story. Welcome, it takes more than one language to tell a story. Welcome, it takes more than one language to tell a story. Welcom! Welcom! Falsha! Come, bend the living room. Come join our brilliant gathering.