Some hidden memory,
of your time in the womb –
your small thoughts flashing, dreaming
of desert dancers and gyring dust.
A soon to be birthing majnūn,
A mum’s janīn, the bitter surprising result
of tousled sheets
and nights with a nomadic bar back…
The brooding, bastard boy –
restless hands, like his father,
curdled naivety, like his mother…
faithless heart
Hands that lash, beat, tear…
almond eyes that hide
a dancing tempter,
a whisperer,
(cont.)
Jinnī…
Hidden, such hidden
thoughts,
the brooding boy, the failing scholar,
with a drunken tutelary spirit
whispering nonsense,
a broken old thing, best heard in the Latin,
lost in the desert
beneath the brilliant son
who pounds
and beats
and spins to dust.
-Martin Burns
Writer Moe 