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And when they get
to this part of the story,
when the anthropologists
of all feelings ever felt
digging through the legacy of pages
get as deep as
this uncelebrated chapter,
may they judge it
not solely on the reasons why
or the absence of one that’s
socially acceptable,
not by the consequences of
a humanness not strong enough
to stand by a resolution,
or point their fingers at
the clicking of dominoes
tumbling forward to knock down
everything on their path,
unresisting and unconcerned
about right and wrong,
gravity the only master
they recognize;
because truly,
our actions here
will have no merit
under those standards.
They will have to narrate
this swatch of time simply as,
“This is what happened.”
and just try to be as faithful
to the facts as possible.
Only then can we have
a fighting chance to
have our beauty acknowledged.
Farther than acknowledged
but not as far as justified:
a few paces past forgiven.
If you frame us against
these ruins,
all we would be
is ugly.
But against a white wall
of neither premise nor prejudice,
we are the stuff of heroes.
Only then will we be able
to believe we did something here
that is worth the ink it takes
to be dug up,
when you and I are dust
and our love is echoes,
by those who will dare make sense
of what came between
the before and after,
and how we lived inside it,
for as short as it endured,
as if it were
a city of centuries.

“Ramadhan 1430 H is Coming” by photographer Warnaiman