by Ibn Al-´Arabi
Read by Emma Rye
Moringa of the flood bed
on the banks of the river Tigris.
A dove on a swaying bough’s mournful cooing
has turned me sad,
Her song like the song
of the queen of the gathering—
When she touches her triple chord
you can forget the maestro brother of the caliph al-Hádi!
And when she sings!—who was Ánjash
that camel driver with the mesmerizing chant, anyway?
In Hadimát, Sálma’s direction,
and Sindád, I swear it,
I’m in love, far gone,
with a girl who lives in Ájyadi.
Wrong, she lives in the obsidian black
of the membrane of my liver.
Through her, in a rush of musk
and saffron, beauty falls