A thousand nights of love, now I'm alone,
Awaiting once again this sorceress
Who weaves about my sanguinary throne
Her tapestry of oral artfulness.

The tales she tells the stars stoop down to hear;
The soaring larks in awe suspend their song;
Afflictions flee, vexations disappear
The while her magic doth the spell prolong.

How oft I've sworn to take her life, and yet
Each time I am diverted from my vow;
Some day I'll hurl her from the parapet . . .
But hark . . . she comes! . . . I cannot do it now.

For how can I aspire to be a god
In Samarkand without Scheherezade!

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