Naghmeh.  The round, jangling wood frame—your 
fingers.  Doum tak kah, doum tak—the drum. Rings
snapping back sharply against the skin.  Salaam.

Naghmeh.  The desert strings pluck, thrumming the
voices crying, whispering, and shouting lament over you—
listening, our hearts in tune—one open ear.  The fires burn.

Naghmeh.  Your encircled wrists, snapping hips whipping 
in each turn, people hiding in the folds of your dresses, 
tonight your arms are twirling above.  The dance is answered. 

Naghmeh.  The ney mourns and fastens each measure of
cloth you weave.  She is sweet dovesong, plaintive cooing. 
You are untouched by the piping sorrow.  Inshallah.   

And so you persist, Naghmeh, in time out of mind and
place.  Be there no one lonesomely, alone facing fires.
You beat the charm of the djinn away.  They flee.

And I descend.  From the many wishes the genies and
devils would have me choose, there is only this—
Naghmeh—your round skin, the rings moving us twain.  My love.