Verse 33
By Zohra when she loosens the blue veil of evening, I swear the night has a pulse.
By Zohra when she loosens the blue veil of evening, I swear the night has a pulse.
We jinn heard her before men named her: one silver note above the roofs, and every brass lamp trembled.
The king asked, What instrument is she playing? I said, Majesty, perhaps we are the instrument.
Then he ordered the musicians to imitate her. Seven strings broke from embarrassment.
Perfume is the memory of a flower after the flower has escaped. Desire is the perfume of a world we cannot keep.
I loved a woman who wore no jewels except the reflected planet in her cup.
When she drank, Venus shattered. When she set the cup down, Venus returned. Thus I learned how cheaply heavens are broken.
Do not trust the poet who says love is eternal. Pay him after breakfast and ask again.
Yet do not trust the cynic either. He has merely been singing in a lower key.
Zohra, bright musician, bend one note toward the earth and make the accountants forget addition.
Bend another toward the grave and make the dead complain of unfinished dancing.
Our city has a gate for merchants, a gate for soldiers, and a gate for lovers. Only the lovers climb the wall.
The guard asked why. They said, Gates imply permission.
A cat crossed the palace roof while the moon was thin. Every astrologer wrote an omen; the cat wrote nothing and reached the kitchen.
I asked the cat what Venus means. It bit me gently, which is a complete theory of affection.
Some nights Zohra is a bride. Some mornings she is a knife with light on it.
If you insist these are contradictions, you have never loved anyone awake.
We call copper the metal of her house because it carries warmth and remembers the hammer.
A heart should be like copper: conductive, workable, and not mistaken for gold.
The sultan commissioned a mirror so perfect that whoever looked in it saw the face they most desired.
Within a month the court was empty. Everyone had eloped with themselves.
The mirror remained, terribly lonely and absolutely accurate.
There is no song without distance between notes. There is no longing without distance between bodies.
Perhaps paradise is not the abolition of distance but the art of making distance sing.
At dawn the muezzin of no mosque called from the horizon: Wake, sleepers, the beautiful liar has returned.
We asked, Which liar? He answered, Whichever one you are already hoping for.
I praise Zohra not because she is merciful. Wine is not merciful; music is not merciful; beauty has never signed such a contract.
I praise her because for one instant she makes the cage remember it was made of light.
Then morning opens its ordinary shops, and I owe three creditors.