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After we connected
with the echo
of the gospels, broken hymns
Arabic thought
after we weaved
the finest of tapestries,
the holy spirit, Attar’s flock of
birds
shattered the
illusion of self-portrait,
silence was never an option, the history
of my wounds
mirrored the
pain of your self-inflicted cry,
and my voice broke its fast to tell
you
the moment I
began to love you
was when your poems made me realize
what happened
before
didn’t belong to us.
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