Descent of Abu Nuwas
Jinan means eternal waiting.
Jinan means defeat.
Jinan means death by your own hand.
Be what you choose, Ibn Hani. Be a stone. Be the drinking companion whose black laugh coughs up his old defeats. Be the road to the tavern where the parrot is everyone's favorite friend.
Your banner remains the muddy coat you dragged, tossed
in the tavern and forgot there.
At end of night
You bend under pearl clouds to hold up the walls and pull out the illusory thread from wine bottles as you sit among drunken friends until the dawn brightens your face.
The wine skin is empty and your coat is in tatters. Between the star of Babylon and its light there is a door and a door keeper. A virgin with small round breasts since Noah's times.
We follow the starlight
and descend damp stairs.
The sound of our steps fades
on worn-out stone.
Oh space, receding space, you can repeat anything except the echo.
Jinan is in every land,
in every spark and fire
Be what you will, Ibn Hani,
be rock, or echo,
space or dew
waiting for her caravan to pass,
the wine jug is where we will meet
to improvise a hunting song writing it in the dust of the horse hooves, expecting a gift from the emperor for it. Perhaps an estate
For the hunt I have chosen
the dog with the sharpest nose.
Repeat, Ibn Hani, in the pure cup I found the face
the face that pursues me.
And the hills are her thighs, her fragrance is the east wind
and my bed is a wilderness.
The way to the beloved is the closed door with the guard from Basrah.
. . . .
But in every tavern, in every willow,
there is some news of Jinan.
We follow her dancing caravan in a cloud of dust, never coming close.
. . . .
You were never two
how can you be one?
Her face fades in the last window of your rushing bus. Whenever signs say she is coming, she disappears. Every Jinan disappears, wears her shadow, becomes the escaping bird.
Every wilting rose is Jinan,
the ashes of the wind,
the dying flame, the dry grass
consumed by fire, lightning, glittering sand lifted by wind, the pheasant in flight, Jinan. And so Ibn Hani, be what you like,
a wave, or a sail
to the Hakaman of sorrow.
Be our Magi huddled in a tavern.
Be the confidant of gilded dolls,
or the beggar at the door
of her gruff master.
Songs are the horses tamed at the gathering of deaf men. Be a stone or an echo. Be space or dew waiting for Jinan's caravan. Be a face or its shadow on the jug. The night is a drum. And though you are slapped and whipped, the Babylonian star fades in its dome, longing for your face and your songs. Surrounded by your drunken friends the light of the dawn turns into a lavender in your hands. The wine skin is empty, your coat frayed, and your face the object of snickers. Be the flame or the ashes.
Jinan means eternal waiting.
Jinan is defeat.
Jinan is suicide.
Jinan means defeat.
Jinan means death by your own hand.
Be what you choose, Ibn Hani. Be a stone. Be the drinking companion whose black laugh coughs up his old defeats. Be the road to the tavern where the parrot is everyone's favorite friend.
Your banner remains the muddy coat you dragged, tossed
in the tavern and forgot there.
At end of night
You bend under pearl clouds to hold up the walls and pull out the illusory thread from wine bottles as you sit among drunken friends until the dawn brightens your face.
The wine skin is empty and your coat is in tatters. Between the star of Babylon and its light there is a door and a door keeper. A virgin with small round breasts since Noah's times.
We follow the starlight
and descend damp stairs.
The sound of our steps fades
on worn-out stone.
Oh space, receding space, you can repeat anything except the echo.
Jinan is in every land,
in every spark and fire
Be what you will, Ibn Hani,
be rock, or echo,
space or dew
waiting for her caravan to pass,
the wine jug is where we will meet
to improvise a hunting song writing it in the dust of the horse hooves, expecting a gift from the emperor for it. Perhaps an estate
For the hunt I have chosen
the dog with the sharpest nose.
Repeat, Ibn Hani, in the pure cup I found the face
the face that pursues me.
And the hills are her thighs, her fragrance is the east wind
and my bed is a wilderness.
The way to the beloved is the closed door with the guard from Basrah.
. . . .
But in every tavern, in every willow,
there is some news of Jinan.
We follow her dancing caravan in a cloud of dust, never coming close.
. . . .
You were never two
how can you be one?
Her face fades in the last window of your rushing bus. Whenever signs say she is coming, she disappears. Every Jinan disappears, wears her shadow, becomes the escaping bird.
Every wilting rose is Jinan,
the ashes of the wind,
the dying flame, the dry grass
consumed by fire, lightning, glittering sand lifted by wind, the pheasant in flight, Jinan. And so Ibn Hani, be what you like,
a wave, or a sail
to the Hakaman of sorrow.
Be our Magi huddled in a tavern.
Be the confidant of gilded dolls,
or the beggar at the door
of her gruff master.
Songs are the horses tamed at the gathering of deaf men. Be a stone or an echo. Be space or dew waiting for Jinan's caravan. Be a face or its shadow on the jug. The night is a drum. And though you are slapped and whipped, the Babylonian star fades in its dome, longing for your face and your songs. Surrounded by your drunken friends the light of the dawn turns into a lavender in your hands. The wine skin is empty, your coat frayed, and your face the object of snickers. Be the flame or the ashes.
Jinan means eternal waiting.
Jinan is defeat.
Jinan is suicide.
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