The diva is dead, who sang about the hours,
who could dress the toughest mawwal in glitter,
who knew a voice can be fearless.
My earliest singing memory is of her—
who else could dress the toughest mawwal in glitter?
I repeated her habibis in our living room:
my earliest singing memory is of her,
and Mom, showing me off to our guests.
I repeated her habibis in our living room,
I imitated the walk, the hands,
and Mom (showing me off to our guests).
I had no fear of age, of death.
I imitated the walk, the hands
back then, the way she dared to say batata.
“I had no fear of age, of death,”
she could’ve said in an interview, “No fear of men.”
Back then, the way she dared to say batata,
shock people, marry again, mix love with honey.
She could’ve said in an interview, “No! Fear of men?
Yes, Rushdi Abaza was the best kisser.”
Shock people. Marry again. Mix love with honey.
Don’t be afraid, just sing it,
yes, Rushdi Abaza was the best kisser.
Sabbouha means Sabah means morning.
“Don’t be afraid, just sing it,”
Mom urged me in the living room.
“Sabbouha means Sabah means morning,”
she said. Not mourning with a “u.” Yes, that thing that shines.