Oh, for corniced palace of Baghdad! not
the palatial cornices of Sindád al-Híra—

It crowns the gardens cascading below,
a virgin unveiled in a perfumed chamber.

Wind plays in the branches. They bend.
Lovers at last coming together.

Her neck necklaced by the river Tigris,
her lord our master our Imám al-Hádi,

Násir, Mansúr, best of caliphs,
who never set out on horseback to war.

God bless him long
as a dove on a swaying bough's cooing,

Long as smiles flash lightning
(and eyes stream like clouds in answer)

From a bride like the sun when the mist parts,
revealing herself luminous in splendor.