Ibn Al-`Arabi

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 into disarray.

Oh, for corniced palace of Baghdad! not the palatial cornices of Sindád al-Híra— It crowns the gardens cascading below, a virgin unveiled in a perfumed chamber. Wind plays in the branches. They bend. Lovers at last coming together. Her neck necklaced by the river Tigris, her lord our master our Imám al-Hádi, Násir, Mansúr, best of caliphs, who never set out on horseback to war. God bless him long as a dove on a swaying bough's cooing, Long as smiles flash lightning (and eyes stream like clouds in answer) From a bride like the sun when the mist parts, revealing herself luminous in splendor.