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  • Beauty in the ruins. It seems impossible: the road is dusty, the oil tankers drive their liquid manna, the Tigris enters up north into Kurdistan from Turkey, and there she is. A petite vision in organza, a party dress at Hatra, in the ruins.

    Why that dress, why that day, even whys seemed like baubles from Baghdad to Abril.

    But there she was, like a bird in camouflage.

    Out of the pink buff stone, a pink bird.

    Beauty is the ultimate rebuke to the dictators.
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