Tigris Song

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.