#thirdworld

4 posts
  • adt_s_ 17w

    I breathe in the dust of dark world
    Known for indecency, no etiquettes
    Brains filled with mob mentality
    Nothing too different in my fate
    Oppression and depression,
    None will talk about but not rare
    Silent screams in every voice
    but, raising it could be the last dare
    Staring at the city lights, I fancy 'em
    more similar to millions of fireflies
    Bare feet on these fiery lanes
    Going monochrome, all coloured dyes
    A pity judgement, a lot popularized
    Won't change anything of mine
    Thinking it would ache some less
    We stand shut just inside the line...

    #thirdworld

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  • culpritswan 76w

    There are 4 types of people :
    1. Maa Gange
    2. Ganga Ji
    3. Ganga River
    And,
    4.Ganges...
    Been everywhere ;) Which one are you?
    ©culpritswan

  • _12345_ 94w

    A funny man indeed,
    Not so funny within.
    I hear the word and sense the touch
    Of a soul that I'm akin.

    She whispers in my ears,
    describes her world's surmise.
    Knowing it's but an illusion,
    Can't keep thoughts off demise.

    I see her calling now,
    with an elegant, floating shawl.
    Grabbing hold of it, I move on
    I knew I'll get the call.

    ©the_clairvoyant

  • advocate 123w

    Please take a moment to read this. It's important for me and I want you to get my message.

    #islam #taliban #afghanistan #asia #thirdworld #readwriteunite #writersnetwork

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    Fatimah

    The woman walked through the dark alley of Al-Hatjan hesitantly. 19.20. The central steet of the plateau was five minutes away and she was alone, in the dark. El-Jahaara was one of the most remote villages of Afghanistan, in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles away from Kabul. Afghanistan was itself remote, a tiny bit of it would get zero attention.

    What that happens in El-Jahaara stays in El-Jahaara.

    A minute to the central street. Her body started sweating as the lights were closed.

    It was getting late.

    Fatimah rushed until she reached the central street. Her hair got in the way, the small holes of her yeshmak were covered. How would she get them out of the way? Her whole head was covered. What could she do?

    "O glorious God, the sole wish of my soul is that-"

    Oh no. The adhan. The muezzin began his prayer.

    Between the bargains there was spread dead silence. Almost robotically, the people fell to their knees. Nervously, Fatimah looked for her mat. She tried to find it but she couldn't. The bakery was 15 minutes away and she had to get home by 19:30.

    Run.

    Oh Fatimah, oh dear Fatimah. Little did you know about what would happen next.

    "Catch her!" A long scream was echoed through the now almost empty street. A man pointing at the girl and sprinting towards her with a wave of other men heading to her direction.

    She ran for her life. She knew she wouldn't survive. Jury? The punishment was to go to court. Kabul was a day away. She knew she would die the moment they caught her. And she was right.

    Why? Why she thought to herself. What was worth of a medication. She was pushed down, slammed into the floor. Rocks landing on a 17 year old girl's face, screaming and suffocating and struggling to take a breath.

    The bandages were ripped off of her. Nothing worth of the pain. Beaten for refusing to copulate, now killed for refusing to pray. What was that life worth of? Give up, my sweet Fatimah. Give up.
    ©advocate