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After All
by Farida Mihoub

When he asked me how things were,
I said that perhaps a beating heart
was enough good news.
Without it, we'd never see
the gypsies dance on the grass
around their children,
their bodies sweating
their eyes up to the sky.
Nor would we stop to wait for
the end of the dance,
when they wipe their faces
with meaningful smiles
to their women.

He looked at me
as if I had lost my mind.
I turned away and left.
After all, it's my right to think
that being alive is a miracle.

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