For Zakir

Master of rhythm,
hands of fire and ice
on these two goat skin drums.

You who leapt from the hill
into dark waters
to touch the mystery of voice.

You who studied death
and found life in
the spaces between silences.

Master of rhythm,
a trapeze act over
an audience of sleeping eyes.

Teacher of souls,
who told us it’s OK to be silly,
that each mistake is just another branch.

Who implored his disciples
that the teacher never teaches,
the student learns.

You who practiced as a youth
in your father’s house,
trying to earn his attention.

You who went upstream
in the river of music
and found mountain springs.

You who bent the soul’s gravity
toward the white-hot sun
made of a million flames.

Oh Zakirji,
rest in the ground
under these crying wounds.