I will flaunt her—
Like a scarf upon my spear.”
As his voice dies away, is it my imagination, or are the rosary beads in Moghaib’s fingers moving a little faster? After a pause Ali sings again:
“Thou slim narcissus of the gardener’s pride,
Thy mouth flows honey
Over teeth of ivory.
Thy waist is slender
Like the lion’s running in the chase.
Wilt thou have me?
Or thinkest thou of another?