whatever remains of el gubenchi's 1932 cairo studio recording lives between the old cobblestone quarter and my still-warm mahogony ear. i should have gotten up to shake his hand, this uncomfortable tension between me and god. medina, its streets adorned with smells from the bazaar, yet i have chosen to adorn myself in the still concrete of columns. i am for the transcription of the arabic. in the morning, he howled the song in the name of his father, perhaps new fathers weep at the birth of their sons. do not cry for leila or for him, but drink the red wine and grow your love doublely, one for the ruby in the cup, the other for its rouge on your cheek. bombs rape the eyes of the sleeping assyrian gods. as if it were only a sand box, a few worthless grains of sand. i'll cut for you the last swathe of blue from the sky, sever my and if you'll let me, but for 5 minutes more, leave me to sleep without the knowledge of war. a kanun weeps near the funeral of music. having been occupied, notes mourn for the loss of their song. i am for a concert of horses, the origin of gazelle leapt up from t