Timing their oars, raised languid chanting.—
What
This blindman sang was sweeter than—let's say—
The songs of Ibrahim, the dulcet frets
Of Zulzul's lute. I listened till the day
Made gold of all the city's minarets,
And the muezzin summoned us to pray."
Now while we gossiped, lounging slow along
The packed bazaar, a fisher with his nets
Passed, singing Abou Newas' newest song: