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Zurufat - Stephan Athanas | ContempArabic Jazz Ensemble

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" She "

She may be the face I can't forget 
The trace of pleasure or regret 
Maybe my treasure or the price I have to pay 
She may be the song that summer sings 
May be the chill that autumn brings 
May be a hundred different things 
Within the measure of a day

She may be the beauty or the beast 
May be the famine or the feast 
May turn each day into a Heaven or a Hell 
She may be the mirror of my dreams 
A smile reflected in a stream 
She may not be what she may seem 
Inside her shell....

She, who always seems so happy in a crowd 
Whose eyes can be   so private and so proud 
No one's allowed to see them       when they cry 
She maybe the love that cannot hope to last 
May come to me    from shadows in the past 
That I remember      'till the day I die

She maybe the reason I survive 
The why and wherefore I'm alive 
The one I care for through the rough and ready years

Me, I'll take the laughter and her tears 
And make them all my souvenirs 
For where she goes I've got to be 
The meaning of my life is 
She....She 
Oh, she....


" She ",  Kretzmer- Aznavour, Cover By Joan Regader

Angel

The song is based on my poem: 
January: A World Beginning
January wakes slow in the North,
Where frost threads lace on every pane,
And breath becomes a visible thing—
A small white promise leaving lips.
The days are pale, obedient, quiet,
Learning how to lengthen again.
In the mountains of Japan,
Snow falls like the hush after prayer—
Temples ring one clear bell,
And the year bows its head to begin.
In the savannas of Kenya,
The sun is not a stranger—
It stands guard in a copper sky
While acacia shadows stretch like long-limbed dancers.
New rains are stories still being written
Across thirsty soil.
In Argentina, January is a festival—
Mangoes split sweet at dusk,
Children run with bare shoulders,
And time moves with the slow confidence
Of heat shimmering on stone.
The year begins in a summer’s exhale.
In Reykjavik, the night lingers,
A patient guest at every table.
Candles bloom in windows,
And families gather close,
Singing warmth into the dark
With wool, with laughter, with soup.
In India’s north, the morning fog
Rests heavy on the yellow fields;
Kites wait to take the sky at festival time,
Color staking claim against the pale cool heavens.
January is gentle here, but watchful.
In Berlin, London, Montreal—
Grey is not sadness but a canvas
For the smallest sparks of life:
A café window fogged by tea steam,
The sudden flight of pigeons,
A scarf pulled close,
Someone deciding—quietly—
To stay, to try, to begin again.
January is no single thing.
It is hearth and horizon,
Snowstorm and sunstroke,
Dormancy and seed.
It is the earth’s deep breath before speaking,
The human heart clearing space
For whatever might grow.

January is a beginning shaped differently across the world: in the North it wakes slowly, breath turning to frost-threaded lace on glass as days learn to lengthen again, while in Japan snow falls like silence after prayer and bells ring in the new year. In Kenya the sun stands firm over acacia shadows and rains write new stories in the earth, even as Argentina tastes summer—mango-sweet, bare-shouldered, unhurried. Reykjavik keeps candles blooming against the lingering night, India lifts kites into fog-soaked dawn, and cities like Berlin and London wear grey as a quiet canvas for small hopes—a warm scarf, a fogged café window, a moment of deciding to begin once more. January holds both seed and snowstorm, hearth and horizon: the earth breathing in before it speaks, and the human heart making room for what may grow.

One Is Glad To Be Of Service (In Memory of Robin Williams)

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