Some stanzas from a poem that I never finished from several years ago.

A voice like revelation sings
in pitches high and low;
the rhythmic beat of angel wings
sound silently in tow.

A flat note joins the chorusing
of pilgrims lined for prayer,
all marshalled by the muezzin —
a girl with jet black hair!

Her skin is white like edelweiss
or his perfected heart —
the torch that thawed the Arab ice,
uniting tribes apart.

In concert with her hallowed hum
a Fender strums a chord
in tempo with the body’s drum
remembering its lord.

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