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dacronm Where is your source for this?

He made it better

in Arabic there is no such thing as أنا ليس لي..so if you want to say i am not here، you say: انا لست هنا if you want to say I wasn't here, you would أنا لم أكن هنا (i wasn't here). ليس is a فعل ماضي ناقص which is special kind of verb that has its own grammar. The translation is correct. I am not mine.

ar.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D9%83%D8%A7%D9%86_%D9%88%D8%A3%D8%AE%D9%88%D8%A7%D8%AA%D9%87%D8%A7 In Arabic grammar it's called كان واخواتها check it in wikipedia in the above link.

The original opens with glissandi, with Alice Coltrane on harp, so Ravi wanted the glissandi there in honor of his mother. It's not virtuosic, it's an effect to achieve a certain sound. What's the issue? This version wasn't recorded in its original key because Charlie Haden wanted to play it in Gminor instead of F#. He composed it, and certainly has the right to change his mind about what key it's in. Hope that helps!

Brandee Younger charlie haden is the freest white man i´ve ever seen

Gonzalo Francisco Vazquez Ubiedo oh... and sandman, lurie, zorn, and medeski, martin and wood are very close....

Gonzalo Francisco Vazquez Ubiedo y jarret, of course

I take it you don’t know who Alice Coltrane is and was

No one guided me to myself. I am the guide Between desert and sea, I am my own guide to myself. Born of language on the road to India between two small tribes, adorned by the moonlight of ancient faiths and an impossible peace, compelled to guard the periphery of a Persian neighborhood and the great obsession of the Byzantines, so that the heaviness of time lightens over the Arab's tent. Who am I? This is a question that others ask, but have no answer. I am my language, I am an ode, two odes, ten. This is my language. I am my language. I am words' writ: Be! Be my body! And I become an embodiment of thier timbre. I am what I ahve spoken to the words: Be the place where my body joins the eternity of the desert. Be, so that I may become my words. No land on earth bears me. Only my words bear me, a bird born from me who builds a nest in my ruins before me, and in the rubble of the enchanting world around me. I stood on a wind, and my long night without end. This is my language, a necklace of stars around the necks of my loved ones. They emigrated. They carried the place and emigrated, they carried time and emigrated. They lifted their frangrances from their bowls. They took their bleak pastures and emigrated. They took the words. The ravaged heart left with them. Will the echo, this echo, this white, sonorous mirage hold a name whose hoarseness fills the unknown and whom departure fills with divinity? The sky opened a windon for me. I looked and found nothing save myself outside itself, as it has always been, and my desert-haunted visions. My steps are wind and sand, my world is my body and what I can hold onto. I am the traveler and also the road. Gods appear to me and dissappear. We don't linger upon what is to come. There is no tomorrow in this desert, save what we saw yesterday, so let me brandish my ode to break the cycle of time, and let there be beautiful days! How much past tomorrow holds! I left myself to itself, a self filled with the present. Departure emptied me of temples. Heaven has its own nations and wars. I have a gazelle for a wife, and palm trees for odes in a book of sand. What I see is the past. For mankind, a kingdom of dust and a crown. Let my language overcome my hostile fate, my line of descendants. Let it overcome me, my father, and a vanishing that won't vaninsh. This is my language, my miracle, my magic wand. This is my obelisk and the gardends of my Babylon, my first identity, my polished metal, the desert idol of an Arab who worships what flows from rhymes like stars in his aba, and who worships his own words. So let there be prose. There must be a divine prose for the Prophet to triumph.