But this is love; the strain
of the adhan buzzing through
the house & the fact of this noise
never becoming music.

Some letters get lost in Amrica;
they keep a barbar like me damned,
but Sam, they drop the am.

Mr. Adhem, ahem, do you
right or left? Can you sing
our anthems? Stand

down. State your name.
Open wide. How long
have you had this cough?

We fed, that night, on wine, until the night
felt like the day; until day's stars

broke through the dark & night’s had
fled away; until night fell,

winning us the sweetest bliss, while we
remained untouched by care or fault.

If that night was longer, my joy may
have lingered on. But, O, these nights are few.

Ibn Zaydun


وليلٍ أدَمْنَا فيهِ شربَ مدامة
إلى أنْ بَدَا للصّبْحِ، في اللّيلِ، تأثيرُ

وجاءتْ نجومُ الصّبحِ تضربُ في الدّجى
فوَلّتْ نجومُ اللّيلِ، وَالّليلُ مَقهورُ

فحُزْنا مِنَ اللّذَاتِ أطْيَبَ طِيبِها،
ولَمْ يَعُرْنا هَمٌّ، وَلا عاقَ تَكْدِيرُ

خلا أنّهُ، لَوْ طالَ، دامتْ مسرّني،
ولَكِنْ ليالي الوَصْلِ، فِيهنّ تَقصِيرُ

ابن زيدون

A light got lodged inside my throat,
now I can only go
uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, uh oh.

Your house grows hollow as you grow;
a father’s deafness. Echo, echo.