Orion lies spread eagle; his dagger – so Shakespeare called it – hangs limp and to the left
The week lies pregnant as it enters the final sacred hours
The cantors’ arias echo and rebound and reverberate with sadness and poetry and supplication
Tens of overlapping songs issue from the minarets bathed in green luminescence
The tenor voices bounce off the citadel walls, they bathe my rooftop
The hour of prayer is ending, one by one the singers fall mute
Until only one voice sustains and soars on the breeze
The sun is not yet tingeing the sky, only stars and the light of my laptop compete with the light pollution
The laundry is drying around me – the desert air does this effortlessly
The birth of a new Friday is here – I manage to pick out to words of a sung prayer:
“ Allah Akbar” – God is Great
Orion slinks away to the prominence elsewhere– knowing these praises are not sung to him
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment