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| From Ramadan |
A memory, like a ghost,
passes through—
a pool of cool air!
In reply to being spooked,
a little shout
flutters out.
Who goes there?
Whose memory
do I descry?
What word was spoken,
half heard?
Whose blurred call: All or nothing at all?
Just a passing thought,
a cipher, naught,
in a night that looms
larger than a thousand nights,
a night of spirits’ flight.
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