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1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm
Raymond Turco Feb 2018
The Führer smashes his fist down, sending millions into the void.
An S.S. man in the Lager directs his gaze into the void.

British boys lie entrenched, gambling: mortar rains on German lines.
They charge at dawn with bets and hopes, but each pays into the void.

Sailors smell petrol and hurl themselves to the murky waters.
Fire explodes battleships, and grey Zeros rise into the void.

The Angel of Marzabotto buries the dead, wiping his brow.
An officer lodges a bullet there; the Angel prays to the void.

Green GIs go romping through the jungle after Victor Charlie.
They come upon rice fields, and set My Lai ablaze, into the void.

George III holds tight to colonies that raise muskets and new flags.
The Ministry of All Talents leads him, crazed, into the void.

Nippon men flood Nanjing and throw a maiden to the ground.
They ****** their bayonets to send her, dazed, into the void.

Fascist youth march the Bedouins across the Libyan sands.
Captors fence nomads in; the Duce looks, unfazed, into the void.

A young captain and his Bedouins shoot Turks without pretense.
Lawrence, disillusioned, fades out unpraised, into the void.
An English-language ghazal (غزَل in Urdu). The form has ancient pre-Islamic origins in Arabia.
Brycical Aug 2013
but that could be said of anywhere.
However, some places
seem to have hypnotic hips and easy eyes
with a mischevious, seductive scarab grin.
Like magic, it pulls me in.
Here, labels like good or bad are trite,  
there is only this magnetic whirling
energy culling myself and others inside
simply because we picked up the phone and showed up.

But now it's our responsibility to find balance
amidst serene listless apathy on the beach
and party hardy into the midnight arty energy scene jack & coke down the rabbit hole we go.

Some Bedouins say Dahab means "time  goes,"
which has me convinced Moses and his folks weren't lost
in terms of location but lost when it relates to time,
trying to find a middle path
between excess and sloth
in this south Sinai town.


Yes, not two but three schools of thought,
forming a triangle in this hypnotizing spiral;
two points of excess and one of balance!
All three balance each other,
and it's hell trying to stay in the center of this eye
of this metaphorical storm of enlightenment.
Naturally, gravitational forces pull some to the
gray matter island headspace of echoed sins
and carnivorous lascivious pandemonium.  
Not everyone will find what they seek on the warm beaches here,
or the raving, bubble foam dance parties in strobe light nights.
That's just the way it is;
there's not enough room for everyone in the center.

And this is where we learn to accept ones place,
because only then can we move on to another plane,
on another beach with more to learn and some to teach.
Sean Hunt Dec 2015
Good Fences

Oxymoronic mania
Infecting ordinary beings!
Through the ages.
“Good fences make good neighbours”
They say
So they say

Israel, one day
Will be the best
Of neighbours
With the wall all around them
From east to west

Buddies to Bedouins
Touted by Saudis
Lebanese unfreeze
Hamas 'no mas'!

We should all build
A wall!

Sean Hunt
Windermere  Jan 30 2015
Nora R May 2015
Her bare feet and palms are the shade of half ripe maroon dates.
Her strong silhouette, a gazelle at sunset.
Eyes are dark brown granules of coffee.
The clanks of gold jewellery on her forehead and ankles,
her sweet aroma of roses fused with jasmine saturate air.
Her fiery soul - a wild Arabian horse yet untamed by bedouins.
Her sun kissed skin glimmers under sunlight;
falcons are constrained with the touch of her fingertips.
She stands tall as she carries her pride,
tall as she hums with the gentle birds.

We ancient women, are an unbroken chain of tribal ancestry,
interlinked by blood and soul. Our lineage, a mother's lullaby,
carried by the wind that disperses sand,
wind that shakes  the core of oceans.
https://soundcloud.com/nora-r-4/ancient-women
POSSIBLE Nov 2023
Hello
H̵e̵l̵l̵ is lo

Grand Rising
Mind the Do

No Boundary -No burden Man
No Foundry -No Smoking plants

See....(d)s))

We had lived out the ghet̴̹̥̲͈̤̬̘̪͇̗̰̣̼̖͊́̌̃̆̑͊̀̉̓̓̇̋̃̈́ͅṯ̵̢̢͙̹̌̍̽̾̌̃͛̆̔̾̃̚ŏ̴͓̠̳̤͍̀̊̅­̨̜̙̣̳͎͇̳̝̮͜.
( at E.) Alaska and poverty w̵̢̢͇̱͔̻̹̪̞̰̬̱̻̉̂͛̏̔̕à̷͔͕̦̭̾̿̌͗͐̕͘͠ÿ̶̝̯̲͈̪̠̥̗͈̼͔̮̖̆͋͛̓̎̍̍̄̿̽͜͠
­
Been smoking off sphagedro
Don't ask (me) how
the property paid

We had convinced ourselves
this was poverty made,
this was the way
it was the mental

Rather than how to properly pave...
Stop and get saved. We'd rob and rip r̴̟̗͔̣̋̽͂̑̐̍͒́͒́͘ạ̶̡̡̡̭͍̥͔̖͓̜̥͎̩͙̓͌ves
To tap into ley lines , we laid ̶l̵i̶n̵e̴s̵
to hear one another?

Why?

We fade minds to the sidelines
Existence is another mother consumed
Tripped im a land mind
everyday, it was essential
Felt like we saved lives
just by saying

Hi

Who was I supposed to be then
how am I poised to po̸̢̧̡̙̟̥͉̮͈̮͇͇̎͂͌̇̀̃͘͜͜se now?

H̵e̵l̵l̵ is empty
And all the devils are he̶͔͂̿̀re

Don't come and tempt me
And All the bedouins near

the d̵̢̨͈̫̦͈͈̦̣̯̼̔͛̔̅̾͝ͅͅa̷̼̠̱̥̪̥̗̫͖̞̱̻̻͐͒̅́̌̾͜͝r̵̡̨̼̰͉̜̝̳̥͕͇͐̅̈̍̚͜k̴­̧͇̖̳̦̞̞̯̲̖̾̈͌̀̀̍̀̈́͗͗́̌͑̅͘͘can be a low hum

That low hum f̵̛̞̲̞̮̙͚̠̮̀̋̆̓͂̓̓̄̔̃̈́̋́̀̐̍͘͘a̷̛͉̭̤̩̳͓̰̦͍͕͈̥̜̣̟̥̼̍̍̃̔̇̄̈́̅̔̚l̴̉́̇́­̢̪̮̗̺̗̭l̶̢̢̧̰̰̞̹̙̣̳̩̱̙̀́̏̊̓̓́͘ ̶̛͔͔͓͙̥̫̩͇̭̩̜̻̹̇̅̄͗̐́̒̂̈́͛̀͂͋̚͘ to a dull ***..

*** turn silence to the doldrum̴̬͔̰̠̠̳̫̠̠̣̫̺̠̝͍͙̎̌̓̽̌͋̍͛̔̂͌͑̔̂̃̊̎́̄̈́́̕͘͘͠ͅ

** hum eve, press up the tress
the shadow be a pit fall,
mess up your knees

a void in eve become
a slow shade seed

Devoid of the needs
beckon doe ray me

its beyond whats in the fire
in the propane, key

Heating up with Sour D
Pushing to get pro-paid
(C)see)()()
Halo with the dome braid
Angel with the co-pay

Singing singles with lonely
Singing for the lonely!

When did culture become business?
When my business became the culture...

Its not a bug, its a feature,
long exposure measure

the posture of composure,
Who could torture the Rapture,

The picture is the culture
self- Suturing the Future

its a self-evident thing,
so potent it ring

Bout to help Erich architect
A co̴̡̢̰͕͈̦̲̤͖͇̯̮̬̟͍͙̥͉͍͚̳̙͕̫̣͍͓̙͓̖̮͇̼̞̗͇̺̎͗̄̇́͜rner outta the ring
carve a Stone outta the wing


Dem B̶̛̻͇̺̻̣́͑͗̑̽͐̑̍̂͒̀̇̚̚͝͝ǫ̷̨̨̭̲̪̝͎̹̰̺̈́͛̔̓̍̎͆́̉̅̊̈́̒̕͝ň̸̼̞̯̟̱͓̌͜͠͝­̙͈̫͚̙͎̱̝̣͜ẽ̴͖̓͊̊͝ gotta be prouda king
But Whats the sound when it sing?
N̴̨̧̧̧̨̨̢̧̢̨̢̡̢̢̢̨̧̢̨̢̡̡̢̢̧̧̛̛̛͓̞̯̙͍͔̱̳̙̥̖͙̺̩̣͕̹͎͍̮̞̰̣̦̼̯̮̬̮̼̪̬̗̩͚̻͓̝̝͎̮̫̠͚͔̯͉̺̲͉͇̻͈̺̘̲͉̥̦̺̖͈̹̥̘̜͇̥̮̲̙̯̜̟̺͖͚̫̫̹̫̱̝̰͖͓̮͕̜͖̟͉̬̝͕̻͙̜͓̗͖̥̝͇̞̥̙̟̥̘̯͔̫̞̻͇͚͍͖͔̗̭̻̝̖̟̯͎̤̳̻̰̖͕̥̳͖̹̗̳̲̝̯̝͓̮͙̤̞͓̬̰̲̲̞͇̩̤͈̝̘̖̲̬̱̮̣͚͍̣̫̬̘̳̮̗̭̮̥̝̖̖͔͙͉̲̬̮̙̤͖̺͚̭͓̲̘̻̮̻̖̻̫̗̳̦̻̪͎͉̜̣̰̳̠͎͈͍̞̞͍̥͎̯̳̠̩͉̻͉̦̱̬̞̯͍̰̺͇̦̣̮̫̱̤̝̤̄̋̅̋̒̽̿͆̈̓̑͛͗̆̿̋͛̇̊̋̆̀̑͒̅̄͋̇̏̀̇͑͑̓̌̋̒͒͗͆̈̓̃̋̄͛͛̑͛̎͋́͒͋̆̎̆̊͒̈́̆̓͐̍̑̈́̋̃̿̏͛̅̆͛̿̔͊̏̓͗́͛̒̅̈́̔̏̒̒̀̄͋̀̈́̐̔̊̽̋͂͗̾͊̎̿̕̚͘͘͘̕͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅơ̴̡̨̧̡̢̢̢̧̢̢̢̧̧̡̢̡̡̢̢̛̛̞͖̺͎̯̘̣͙͕͔̫̳̲̻̥̞̞̮͇͚̯͚̬̭͙̘̣̤͈͔̹͈̳̣̩̫̰͎͉̹̺̝̟̗͚̫̬̗̻͔̯̘͕̣͎̙̭̠̺̜̬̳̭̫̙̞͖͎̠̙̮̬̱͉̻̲͉̝̺̤͉̤̳̘̭̻̥̻̯̮̖̦͇̥͇̩̖̼̫̗͍̟͖͙̝̹͇̤̜̭͎͈̹̩̰̬̯̻̱̞̦͉͕͉͎̟̠͈̻̱̳̼̯̯̯̙̮̟̲̹̫̥͈̬̞̮̘̬̩͓͖̹͙̬̻̖̻͕̦͖̯͔̟̲͇̦̼̤̤̎͋͆̾̒͌̽̾͐̔̆́̃̑̉̎̋̔̋̉͒̇̔̊͑́̅́̂͛̈́̂͐̍̂̓́͊̋̎̉̃̑̇̅̋́̊̾̐͗̎̏̿̌͌̾̂̏̈́̓̓̀̃̀͆́̿̓̿́̃̑̃͂̅̉̐̍͊̀̽̊̔̒̈͒̄̾́͐͌͒̂̔̈́̀͌͂͌̋͊̒́̐̽͌͆̈́̅͛͋̃̉̃̈̂͐̔̔̄͒͌̇̐́͂̍̈̂̋͘͘̚̚̕͘̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅ ̶̢̧̧̡̢̨̧̡̢̢̨̧̧̡̛̛̛̛̖̫̪͔̮̪̘̖̗̺͈̯̥̜͓͍̼̪̦͇̱̼̥̻̹̘̣̬̪̳̤͖̭̜̺̲̳̮͎̞̭̪̜̬̣̥̞͈͉̻̤͓̘̜̤͕̹̬̯͎͔̼̫̯̗̟͔̬͕̦͕̩̮̠̘̙͖͔͙̤͕̱̤̪̘͇̺̺̰̹̪͖͕̬̯̳̣̗̟̜̖̳͈̺͓̟̪̮̝̣̘͊̈́͛͌͂̓́̔͗́̑̄͆̇̾̾̌͑͂̀̈͂͋̿͒͆̐̾̀̈́͌̒͊̂͑͐̈́͑́͌̿̏̔̍͋̔̈́͆͊̃͆͋́͛͊̃̂̍̓̏͆̿̾̋̍̃̂̑͐̔̍̿̆̍͌̑͆̏̐̅̍̎̂͂͊̉̈͗̾̾͑̂́͋͗̅͂̈́̐̀̂̇͐̐̏͋̋̑̈́̀̄̋̒͒͒̄͋̀͂̽̓̋̇̓̂̈́̇̍̑̈́̇̆̍̎̉͐͊̒͑͋̓̒͊͒̏̿̀̅̏̈́̋̔̂̒̅̅̊͋̂̓͐̏̕̕͘̚̕̕̕͘͘̚͘̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅb̸̧̨̨̢̢̧̢̡̧̨̧͓͈̟̭̳̱͈͚̳̤̲̦̪̜̳͉̫̭̖̥̬̦̹̲͔̯̦͕̱̭͓̝͍̖͇̠̝̲͎̲̱̦̱̫̠͚̗̰̲̞̺̻̪͓̺͖̮̲̰̲̝̲͍̠̳̝̭̣̲̱̟̯̪̤̹̼̟̞̣̝͚̙̼͔̱̬̣̪̤̺̫͍̳̭̬͈͔̬̦̫̮̙̫͕̜̥̥̙̻͎̰̬͔̼͓̳̖̠͙̯̻̮̠̥̮̹̟̹̼̬̼̰̞̟̟̗̯̩͚̙̱̭̗͎̗͈̣̣̝̺̺̝̮̘͖̠̬͚͉̞̘͔̥̠̟͚̗͉̏͌̎̇͂͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅͅở̶̡̨̨̡̨̡̨̢̢̡̨̢̧̧̧̡̡̡̢̢̨̢̢̢̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̖̘̣̭̙̰̲̬̘͓̬̹̖̜̜̜̙̥̮̥̩̺̬̙̖̘͓̺̱͉̙̞͕̪̯̤̜̬͍͙̬̤̩̺̺̘͎̬̻͎̻͓͍̺̮̺̜̫͍͎̘̦̺̥̠͖͕̫̪̤̭̺̯͍͉̠̖̪̜̥̲̭͍͕̭͙̙̭̪̭̥̳̭̭͖̮̤̜̤̮̞͙̳͍̬͓̜̰͈̬̻̰̞̝̗̩͔͖̖̙͚̹̲̜͚̰̣͇̭̞̮̫͖̥͍̖̱͉̝̬͈̼̪̰͕̹̺̯͇̲̬̮̮̗̫̮̳̪̖̣͕̤̖͎̱̻̭͇̤̪̖̣̗̝͍͚̮̖͓̰͕̳̝̤̮̰̣͍̯̩͈̰̬̳̼͖͙̳̟̪̭̣̟̠̳̲̻͈͉̙͚͖͉̤̼̙̬̤͙̘̩͇̠̦͙̜̺̟̙̱̉̇̿̄͗̾̇̊̉̓͋̎̅͋̃̍̄͗̋̋̏͆̍̂̑̋̍̂̄̋͛̑̿̊̐͐̓̈́͒̽̂̆̎́̋̀͑̂̽͒̔̓͐̅́̈̍̂̇̇̉̌͆̋̀̀́̈́̈́̓̏̆͋̈̄̓͆̓̒̂̿̃͑͒͊̈́̾͂̈̽̓̓̍̈́̀̽͒͒͗͗̒̋̀̊̍̀̃͒̃̿͌́͐̍͂̍̾̂̔́̐̀̓͑̏̐̒͋̂͛͌͂̍̿̆̾͂̾̃͌̋̓́̋̏̆̿̍̐̈́̆̆̽̓̆̈̂͊̚̚̕͘̕͘̚͘̕͘̕̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅư̶̢̡̡̢̧̨̨̧̡̢̢̢̨̡̧̡̛̛̛̟̤͖̠̠̘̪̱͓͓͓̲͕͓̱̮̺̤̹̘̬̣͓͎̘͈̥͕̥̘̜̳̥̼̟͚͎͔̦̯͍̞̘̣̞̩͔̲̫̭̻̞̹͙̮͕͕͕͙̪̥̻̗̭͎͕̘̼̠͖͖͚̻͈̗͇͚͚͈͚̞̱̟̪̲͉̫̘͈͈̞͇̟̞͚̰̞͙̖̦͇̩͚͙͉̭̘̥̞̩̯͍̱̼̥̩͙̦̭̖̜̼̻̼̙̘̥͉͔̮̻̠̠̬̫̞̲̦̪͚̣̣̱͎̖̻̝̜̭̞̪̯̬͚̂̑̃͌͋̐͑̈́͆̀̋̉̈́̎͗̂̎͂̆́͌̄̈́̔̂́̎̍̌̀̀̄̀̌̎̈́̍͂̉̽̇͑̃͗̐̓̀́̇͐͛̇̽̀̀͒̇͛͋̂͂̔̒̿̎͊̅͗͐̂̌͂̓̇̎̄̈́͌̏̋͐̽̒̀̈́̊̄̇̈́͆̽́́̀͆͐͊́͋̉̐̋͋̂̃̂́̿̇̋͐͋̈́̿͌́̏͊̎̒̋̌̓̒̔͆̋̎̀́̅͑̀́͂͂͘̚͘̕̚͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͝ͅͅn̷̢̨̢̧̨̧̢̢̡̡̨̨̢̡̧̧̡̡̧̧̢̡̧̧̨̪̜͚͈̼̟̲̤̙̺͉̮͚̼͙͇̪͖͖̖̼͍̗̜̙̗̮̲̺̣̝̳͎̝̤̲̘͍͉̯̰̘͉̲̭̥̬̖͇̲̜̹̳͖̣̥̘̙̦̺͎͙̙̩̞͍͍͙̞͙͈̫͕̤͍͇̭̝̹̼̜͔̩̲̮̤̗͙̘̹̭̰͔͓͕̩͉̝͈̬͍̼͓̼͙͔̯̲̠̯̝̯͓̘̹̠̘̤͚̻̱̮̙̦͉͕̻̗̟̰͈̠̩̫̹̗̞͎̰͈̬͇̹̞͍̜̤̟͕͔͚͔̞̠̪̙̺̩̪͙̬̠̪̤͉̤̱͖̣̠̤͖̦͇͕͈̘̰͇̣̜̰̳̭͎̥͎̫̰̺͈͙̘̬͙̰͎̠̖͙͓͕̬̰̼̫̙̞̲̤̗̤̤̘̥̩͍̩̩̠̭̘̥̘̳̜͓͕̫̺͛͋̍̑̂̓͐́̌̌́̿͌̈́͗̽̐̆́̿͑̉͒̑̈́̈́͌̈́͆͊̈́̉̑͛̓̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅd̸̨̨̡̨̨̡̧̢̢̨̨̨̧̨̡̡̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̪̳̮̱͎̱̳̼̜̬̦̗̰͔̻̱͕͈͚̞̻̦̤͕͔͇͎̤̥̞̮͎̖̦̻̤̲͕̳̳̟̘͕̖̗̯̼̥̬͔̪̥̮̻̟͕͖͎͚̩̥̠̣̟͍̻̳̟͍̩̹̬͚͍̹͍̭̝̗̘͔͉̰͖̥̪͇̻̬̞̳͔͈̱̰̦̲̠͓͈͈͉̲̝̼͖̠̺͉̦̹̱̠͚̬̤̠͉̱̠͇͈̲͕̱̳̼̖̫̬̙̱̳̺̖͕͎̦̝͔̫͇͖̱̹̘̦̳̱͇̲͉͉̦̳͇̟̹̭̗̲̫͔͎̹̺̳͔̲̯̼̳̹̗͈̮͔̥͍͎̭̣̩͈̗͍͓̮͈͙̮͖̤͕̹̗̭͓̟͇̺̱̱̞̙̪̻̲̞̬̹̫̺̣̘̺̰̤͍̥̦̂̃̽̌̓̊̀̀̄̏͊͆̒̈͛͑̾̇̿̔͊̓͗̄̽̔̾̑͊̔̇̓̉͐̑̇̄̾̇̉̽̌̎̓̽̏͐͒͂̈́͑̅̈́͑̍̅̌͊̇̈́͐̄́̅̐̈́̃̍̌̾̎̐̆̍͒̀͛̉̈́͑͊̿̌̓̓̈́͂̏̈́̿̆̑́̋̔̿̓̇͋́̑̈͌͐̅̑͛̆͗̐͊̓̋͌̉͑͛̏̓̄̈̎̑̅̌̄͗͗̀̇͐̎̉̋͗̓̾̌͂̋͐̒͛̽́̽͒̏̋͐̉̒́́̈́̀̆͊̈̊̀̃́̔̏̈́̈̑̋̆̽̇̌̅̃̌̋̿̈́̓̀̎̊̓̐̀̔͐͋̐̈́̃͂͋̓͂̽̉̍̓̾̔̈́͑́̔̀̉̈́̔̿͂͗̒̿̀̌͋͋̆͌̿̅̄̈̓̆͗̀̓̓͐̈̒̏̀̿̓̌͛̽͌̎͘̕͘͘̚̕̕̕͘͘̚̚̕̚͘̕̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅą̴̡̢̢̨̨̧̨̢̧̧̢̨̨̢̻̖̖̮̬̪͕̮̻̱̻͇̹̻͍̘͎̮̥̠̜̬̻͔̳͔͈̳͈̮̮̮̬͖̜̲͎̭̼͕̻̳͔̭͖͙̱͉̜̫̘͎̦̝̲͔̻̪̖̫̜̠̼̰̗͚̩̳̠̮̻̲͍̘̤̬̞̰͓̩̯̥̮͉̙̻̪̻̞̲͍͍̝̟͇̮̰̼̯͈̼̥̞̣̼̼̩̤͍̤͕͈̳̞̯̲̞͕̠͕̝̝͙̯̗̮̭̮̳̣̙̞̣̻̥̗͙͈̖̪̺̱͈̱̞͚͚̫̤͕̒͂̍̒̽̔́́̓̿͆̒̆͘̕͜͜͜͜͝͠ͅͅͅr̶̢̛̮̱̘̪̜̤̥̙̜̱̝͎̲̻̼̹͔̺̳̎̈͑͊̔͂̽̔̈́͂̊̏͗̑̽͋̋̋̌́͛̇̑̓͐͑̔̓̍̈̿̈́́͊͒͌̅̎̅̓̊̒̉̌̽̽͐͂̓̔̃̽̒̉͗̽̒̍̊́̒͑̋̈̚͘̚̚͘͝͝͝͝y̴̢̡̨̡̧̢̡̨̨̨̢̛̛̛̛̛̛͙̣̙̟͙̳̦̤̘̩̙̖̥͉̱̳̤̱̳̟͕̦̺̖̯͓̲̻͈̫͇̞͓̦̪͚̫̞̗̯͈̪̭̞̹̰̖̪̮͈͈̜͚̝͓̰͓̫̰͈̻̰͖͚̜̙̣̼̥̼̻͕̙̖̲̞̙̩͑̓̆͂̾̓̀̔̐̾͆̈͂̈́̃̒̾̏́͗̅͒͆̆̊̃̈́̇̎͐̅̑͒̃̿̄͊͌̿͗̎̐̄̄͂̉̋̊̅̃̾̊̾̈̀̽̊̄͑̈͆͆̆̿͌̋͐̔͌̾̓͋̋̐̒̃̀̅̊͂̿̓̾̇͌̑͐̿̄̆͛͐͋̎̉̎̂̊̎͛̇͌̏͛̄̄̈̒̃̔̒͛͂͊͑̀̽̄̿̆̾̾͗̇̓̇̇͌̒̀̿͆̿̌̐̑̒̇͐͒́̊̃̈̐̔̽̉̃́͒̾͌̅̕̚̚̚̚͘̚̕͘̕̕̕͘̚͘͘͘͘͠͝͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅ ̴̧̨̢̧̤͖̜̰̯̱̖̰̝̱͙̣̗̹̻̣̩͔͉̲͎̯̜̝̜̳̜̺̠̠͖̼̱̹͚̦̘̱͉͉͓̝̫̫̮͚̻̹̪̳̰̫̘̖̹̦̞̩͖͚̏̀͆̀̏͜͜ͅͅͅN̸̢̡̢̧̡̧̢̨̡̢̡̧̛͚͉͍̱̜̻͔̩̬̹̞͖̘̲̯͖̺͇̞̫̼̟̥̦̭̯͉̳͖̦͖̘̬͕̮̬͍̭̭͕̘̖̥͉̮̯̲̪̗̤͚̞͕̯̘̩̜͚̳̤̲͚͍͍̹͚̬̞̖͕̘͓̞̲͔̬̺̪̳̝̗̪̜̘̜̠̯͖̥̥̦̦̦̪̗̩͉̣̪͇͔͉̤̻̣̝̭̠̞̯̞͉̠̼͇̬̻͎̖̞͙̞̣̪̖̺̞̟̟̮̥̩͓̣͚͈̲̟̝̗͖͚̤̮̜̪̫̖̑̈́̅̓̔̃̈́̔̏̎͑͐̓́̋̉̋̎̆̇͒̈́͊͌̎͊̉̃̿̒̈́̓́͒́́̂̃͆͌͗̊͋̊̐̍̇́̀̿̓̉̈̏͋͊̾̈́̆̐͛͒̎͗̍͐̆̐̅͌̅̄͂̐͆̊̓̿̊͐̾̕͘͘̕̕̚̚̚̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅő̵̟̦̲̻̼͎͙̘̰͙̖̦̳͊̀̅̆̈̋̀̔̓́̂̋́́́̽̿͋͊͛̇͋̇̀̎̂̒́͆̏̏̀͘͘̚͠ 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̴̧̨̢̧̤͖̜̰̯̱̖̰̝̱͙̣̗̹̻̣̩͔͉̲͎̯̜̝̜̳̜̺̠̠͖̼̱̹͚̦̘̱͉͉͓̝̫̫̮͚̻̹̪̳̰̫̘̖̹̦̞̩͖͚̏̀͆̀̏͜͜ͅͅͅN̸̢̡̢̧̡̧̢̨̡̢̡̧̛͚͉͍̱̜̻͔̩̬̹̞͖̘̲̯͖̺͇̞̫̼̟̥̦̭̯͉̳͖̦͖̘̬͕̮̬͍̭̭͕̘̖̥͉̮̯̲̪̗̤͚̞͕̯̘̩̜͚̳̤̲͚͍͍̹͚̬̞̖͕̘͓̞̲͔̬̺̪̳̝̗̪̜̘̜̠̯͖̥̥̦̦̦̪̗̩͉̣̪͇͔͉̤̻̣̝̭̠̞̯̞͉̠̼͇̬̻͎̖̞͙̞̣̪̖̺̞̟̟̮̥̩͓̣͚͈̲̟̝̗͖͚̤̮̜̪̫̖̑̈́̅̓̔̃̈́̔̏̎͑͐̓́̋̉̋̎̆̇͒̈́͊͌̎͊̉̃̿̒̈́̓́͒́́̂̃͆͌͗̊͋̊̐̍̇́̀̿̓̉̈̏͋͊̾̈́̆̐͛͒̎͗̍͐̆̐̅͌̅̄͂̐͆̊̓̿̊͐̾̕͘͘̕̕̚̚̚̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅő̵̟̦̲̻̼͎͙̘̰͙̖̦̳͊̀̅̆̈̋̀̔̓́̂̋́́́̽̿͋͊͛̇͋̇̀̎̂̒́͆̏̏̀͘͘̚͠ ̵̧̨̧̡̨̨̢̧̢̨̨̡̡̧̢̨̢̢̨̡̢̡̡̡̧̢̨̨̢̡̛̛̛̛̜̩͙͔̩̘͈̤̼͈̘̞̝̮͎̭̩̭̲͖̦̞̲̦̻̦̜͎̙͓̳͎̭̟̗̦̭͎̯̙͚̖͍̱̟͍͎̯̣̤̹̭̖̺͖̞̟̹̰͈̮̯̱͉̻̥̪̘̫̫̜̤̜̻͈͍̼͔̩̳̩̭̙͓̘͔̪͍̹̦̟̰̲̩̥̳̯̙̖̪̦̖̩̘̺̼͉̪̭͈͉̯̝̲̗̰͖̮̻̟͚̜̖̺̺̪̱̟̺͙̲̻͍̭̝̦͇͕̜͖̯̦̻̮̥̦̝͈̠̰͙͔̫̼͇̲͈̗͇̠̳̮̳͔̭͎̜̣̺̥̬̱͕̗͈̙̠̣͙͎̫̠̝̫̟̭̼͕͚̠͇̣̘̝͇̝̞̤̻͈͇̞̺͍̣̬̲͚͍̲͉̟͖̠̝̤͎̝͍̙̹̜͓̲͓̺̮̬͔̫͆̆̈́̃̐̀̒̽̂̇̒͐̊̅͐͂̿̏́̐̇͛̈́͑̇̋̐́̆̽̎͐̋̿̀̋̈́̅̓͐̒̋̓͆̑̊͑́́̓͆̌̀͌̎̍͋͛̆̽̾̎̋̌̍͑̏̽̽̒̌̉͌̍̔͌̋̒̈́̓̒̈̽̈́͊̉͋͌̋͛̽̎͑̋̉͐͌̊̀̀̍͆̃̐̍̊̊̓͋͋̋̀̔͛̈́̏̂̐͐̎́̉͛̿̂̂̄̎̄̊̽̅͐̇̈̾̐̃̆͊̉̐̌̂͐͆̍̂̀̈́̿̾̊̄̄̍͛̈̾̔̋̍̊̿̋͗̐̈́̃̕̚͘͘͘̕̕̕̕̚͘͘̚̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅB̷̡̡̨̨̡̧̨̧̢̡̡̨̧̡̡̨̢̧̧̧̛̤̣̱͇͇̞̤̜̥͕͖̹̗̯̖̼̣̜̬̫̟̭̼̮̤̳͚͉͎̤̙̹̲̼͕̝͓̯̬̳̪͖̰̯̖͖̰̝̦̹͈̺͇͇̺̬̼̙͎͍̣͈̣͕͓͚͈̞̩̹̟͚̫̰̺͔̲̤̞͔̙͙̹̦͓̯̪̫̩̥̜͇͇͍̩͓͙͓̣̮͙͉͖̫̫̯̪̹͔̹̦͈̜̫̘̲͚̪̜̣̖̟̙̰̮̟̤̺̝̺̺̰͎̩̩͇̟̠̰͕̻͔̖͎̼̞̮̦̤̦̘͈̠̤̜̩̖̮̞͓̦͍͚̤̜̳̳̰̈̎̓̂͌̽̈́̄͊̑̀͌̎̃̐̿͋͋͆͌̍͒̏͂͌̔͛̇͑̽̃̓̽̐̅̓͗̃̓̈̉̆̂͗̐̔̈́̀̈́̈́̀͂̃̓̐̂̉̈̒͐͒̋͒͂͐̓͗̋̀̈̽̎̅͛̇̒̽̋͛̉͑̅͊̀̀͊̆̎̔́͊̆̔̋̍̓͆́̀̈̽̽͗̅̑̎͗̏̇̒̔̇͛̽́̍̂̉̀́̂͋̾̿̈̏̋̏͐̃̽̊͐͆̒́̔̓̒̍͂̉̐͗̓̓͂̏̑̔̔̎͗̓͐͗̅̅̾̉͂͊͆̾͗̕̚͘͘̕̕̕͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅừ̵̢̨̨̧̨̡̨̡̢̡̧̯̪̮̤̦̭͙͙̣̘̻̲̝͔̦̲͚͇̯͚͉̪̲̹͙̲͖͙̯̻̤͙̟̖̟̟̙̤͖̜̣͖̠̗̣̖͔͓͖̤͚͕͎̗̖̹̙̳͉̝̳̭͈̙̝͖͉͕̼̻͖͔̃̏̃̏̎͊̂́̈͑͛̾̀̈̊̿̉̂̽͂̆͐̈͑̑́̊̄̈́̂̾̓̀̀̂̋̅̑́̓̋̓̄̀͒̉̓̄͌̾̇̈́͊̋̇͛̇͒̈́̔̈̈͛͒̇̇̍͊̓͂̂̋́̊̊̽̆͋̒͌̂̅̾̋̚̚̕̚̚͜͜͝͠͠͠͝ͅͅͅŗ̵̨̧̡̨̡̧̧̢̢̢̛͓̯̼̤͔̪̳͕͔̪͙̜̗̞̥̤̩̹͍̫͕̫̰̱̦̱͕̰͉̪̖̝̗͇̞͓̥̰̩̩̬̜̩̭͔̹͓̜͚̥̹̣̖̝̯̳̲͚̜̯̼̰̲̝͕̥̜̗̱̜̲͓̣̖̖̹̹̮̞̮̖̪̱̜̖̼̱̳̣͕̹̭̤͔̝̼͍̼͔̹͓̪̀̈́̇̄̔̌̄̈́̂͋̀̉̈́̄̉̐̀̈́̒͊̎̅͂̊͒́̕̚̚̕͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅd̵̨̨̢̧̨̡̧̡̨̧̡̨̨̧̡̡̨̨̡̨̨̨̛̛̛̛͖͇̼̭̯̬̘͖̱͔͔͇̲̙͙͔̩͇͈̯̭̪͍̱̲̙̘̜͕̤̺̠͇̠͎̘̱͚̩̱̭̩̱͍̭̭̮̰͖̳̬̠̜̯̫̖̤̫̠̣̦͙̗͕̗̬̰̲̥͙̬̟̲̤̭̟̱̱̗̞͖̳͈̮͇̱̞͈̼̪͙͈̺̩̗͕͓̣͍͎̻̙̯̟̮̞̥̳̜̞̮͉͙̳̩̖̗̘̱̫̭̭̥̳͓̙̦̺̟̖̜͕̹̳̣̥̬̳͓̙͇̝͈̰̩͈̤͙̯͈͍̽̌̊̂̿̀̓̅̔͋̿͒͗͌̓̇́̍̒̾̐̇͊́̑͋̾͛̆̂̈́̐́͂͆́̊̇̈́́̈́̌͑͗̓̀̈́̀̀͛͌̈̂̔͆̀̋̂̒́́͋̋̓̎̒̆̋͌̀͊̒͆̍̔̃̑̽̂̔̔̑̈̿̇̾͐́̐̓̔́̀͛͋̑̍͒͐̄͂̀̀̾̊̔́̃͗͋̓̇͑͛̽̅̍̿͌̌͆͗͐̐͌̑̀̀͌̃̄̅̐̓̚͘̕͘͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅe̴̡̨̡̢̧̢̡̢̨̧̢̢̧̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̪̣̭̙̫̟̯̪͉̱̣͎̫̱̠͚̣̣̥̬̯̝̪̣͓̘̳̲̼̥̰̜̝̙̦͖̭̫̺̣̺̠͈̩̘̯̥͙͇̗͙̺̣̜͙̤̯̥̫͓͔̗̺̹̻̙̫̜̞̺̣̫̝̳̫̩̜̼̞͚̞̦͖̬̞̰̘̼̩͎̰̤̫̝̝͈͍͎͓̬̝̜̮̲̤̹̺͈͚͓̗͇̞͖̲͎͚͍̭̳̭̻̯̠̭̞̺̳̰̗̯̦̱͕̟̺̯̘̘̥̼̞̲͖͚͙̻̰̭̮͇̙͇̹̗̫̣̣̹͍͓̹̹͙̤͚͙̳̮͙̭̘̹̦̝̝̣̝̪̠͎̠̰̩͔͓̟̤̣̙̭͓͈̬̹̳̩̫͈͎̤̘̹̜̼͍̟̭̭͖̯̞̥͕̲͓͖̦͎̳̘̜͔̭̺͍͇̰̩͕͓̰̪͇͇͈̞̐̌̈́̂͋̒̀̔͋͑̂̽̀̽̐͌̒̾͐͂͒̀̈́̂̀̊̏̽̆̈̐́͊̆̀͛̋͐̈́̏̂͛́̔́̀̒̽͂̈́́̔̒̆͂̀͑͌̀͗̋̋͊̆͂̄̌͌̓̊̄̐͑̄̓̈́͗̆̓͆̈́̓͗̾͊̋̓̍̿̔̇̎̀̈́̾̉͑́̿͐̃́̃̽̓͑̈́̈̂͑̐̄̀̌̅̀̍̈́̋̽̾̿̒̆̾́̈́̊̉͛͂͋̐̎̍͒̀̒̑͌̽͌͌̊̋͂͑̆̐̆͛̈́̀̑̂̔̑̾̍̉̿̾͌͆̂̐̀̅̅͒͆̃͊̏̇̉̇̀͋͒̽̿̏̎̽̈́̿̉̀̈́͋́̃̂̽͆̏͊̐̃͆͌̿̀̀̀̒͛́̉̐́̎̃̈́͒̐̒̌̊̇̄͆͑͆̌̍̐̆̀̀̃̔̊̓̔̽̑̔̃̏̀́̒̏͊́́͐͒̇̒́̾̎̿͘̚̚͘͘͘͘̚͘̚̕͘̕̚̕̕͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅn̴̡̢̡̢̡̡̨̢̢̢̨̢̡̨̢̡̨̡̧̢̢̡̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̮̯̪͙̮̞̝͉̠̪͇͕̪̤̲̮̟͖̯͕͕̻̜̬͈͎͙̱̣̘͉̙̥̥͉̞͈͇̺̘̘̪̲̬̘͇̭͉̱͓̘̗͈̭̹̯̻̞͍̮͚̙̬̲̙̦̳͕̹̙̬͖̱̰̜͈͕̠̮͍͇̱̦̞̳̜̙̬̝̣̺̙̮̪͙̬͖̰̰̮͎̪̦͉̳̹̦̤̱̖̹̫̘̺̰͇̘͚̬͚͕̦̺̯͍̣̬̼̤͎͖̖̼͇͙̥̩̰̳̱̝̰̳͔̣̜̝͉̮̲̹̠̦̻͈̖̹̻̳̣͖̠͖͔̞̘̟̭̩͎̠̭͔͎̗̻̩̪͇͙̗̲̜̗̳̗̝̤̤̳̳̮͉̖̺̠̪͙͚̦͇̟͎͇̼̩̫͉̝͉̹͎̰̞̰̦̯͕̗̘͎͍͕̗͍̾̔̍͒͗̈̀̾͗̽̑͊͑̍́̔͗͑͛̍̎̎̂̄͂̎̍͗̔́̀̾̏̄̓̇͂̓͂̑̀͊̉̃͑̎̂̈́͊̒́͒̍̆́̄̈́͋̐̋͆̓̄̓̌̿͗̀̒̈́̈́̔̆̓͂̓̒̑̎͑̔͊̌̐́̍͆̐̽̽̄͂́͋͛͒̈͒̓̅̿͐̀̈́̈́̽̉͌̎̈́͌̔̍͋̀̄̋͌̍͐̈͒̓̄̔̌͊̒͊̀̌̎̑̆̈́͛̓̉̐̄̀͗̓͊͂͐̇͊́̆̍̄̀̔̇̅̇̑͆͆̆̐̒̊́́̐̽͛͌͊̈̒̇͂̓̓͊͛̈́̏̚̕͘̕̕͘͘̕̕̚̚͘͘̚͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ
Joel Hayward Apr 2016
In a desert midnight no darker than dawn
With cloudless heavens evident and stretching
To the edges of Bedouins’ minds and ours
Where owls govern with Your permission

You plunged a mighty fist deep
Into the heart and gripped a molten rag
And pulled it into a peak of crags
In which the **** You wanted grew

With a rush of wind you shaped that
Tear into a world-sized hollow to shelter
A man and a starfilled future for any who
Might accept what tugged at him that night

You once said Be! and time commenced
But earlier you had chosen from first
Until final a stream of Rusul and You placed
In that cleft the last Rasul alone but never

And in the radiance of a challenging word
Your spirit whose wings dripped pearls
Asked the silent one who sailed in prayer
To revolve the world on a different axis

Running feet across the earth carried him
To the comfort of arms that felt a beating
Chest bursting with ten million truths and her
Assurances trounced the whisperer’s last ditch

Words of mercy flow around us through a gentle
Heart in a stone cavity in the shade of a night
Without shadows beneath a cloudless cover
Which owls rule ... for a shrinking time
JDK Jun 2015
Everyone knows magic dolphins don't have dorsal fins -
it's a well documented fact.
The Bedouins who discovered super salmon have done extensive research on that.
Every mating season,
they swim up the sides of a tsunami
to rain roe upon unsuspecting salami salesmen.
It's a hard business to get into,
unless you're from Genoa.
Product of boredom (and hunger.)
(alternately known as the Doubting Thomas Crown
Taj Mahal Cupid Affair)
-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -   -  -  -

Fortunate (for me) thee bona fide "FAKE" Cupid
(aka Decoy Donald Duck
and side kickstarter Jay Rad,
colluded donning one alias,
which (former and latter)

amounted tube bing disguised incognito
as the cingular "Ivan Ha Bea Robber Baron),"
while same above placed
their System Of A Down on high alert
whereby, they unwittingly, fortunately,
and accidentally discerned disquieting "noise"

i.e. static electronic crackling
purportedly from nemesis, asper sans above
whereby broadcasters colluded
confusingly, congruously, and convincingly
as thee infamous digital (duplicity)
faux "Big Mac" Trump.

The chalkboard scratching, hair sprayed bouffant,
and knuckle crackling
appeared tubby the handiwork cleverly disguised
(as tinpot dictator antics of Moscow's version,

sans Putin on the ritz),
which decrypted garble (a fluke) as iterated above
strongly emanating via polygamous,
prestigious, and pseudonymous
pull no punches ploy

innocently convincing feigned
duo code named "Ashley Madison and Bert"
disclosing (when uncovered),
a heartless conspiracy in concert

with Sesame Street studded lesser known Muppets
pretending tubby oil tycoon Bedouins
intent to fleece "sensitive"
top secret military defense contracts,

which Russian motley crue ace double agents
intended this act of espionage thence sabotage
feted as a Black Sabbath Lupercalia feint
not for the faint hearted clubby fete

where Cupid given free rule of the roost
allowing, enabling and proffering
Cyrillic chattering Cherubim

hook cooked United States "figurative goose"
lock, stock and barrel, which stratagem
captured president unawares
and did significantly boost

Eastern Bloc reconnaissance (on par
with the Philadelphia Eagles
winning 2018 Super Bowl LII
which surprise clenching championship
wrought frenzied hoopla, gala, and bacchanalia
where barenaked ladies

cavorted nsync with beastie boys,
whence City of Brotherly love hoopla found
nearly every man, woman and child ******
(analogous to each person garnering
an early Sainted Patrick's *** of gold.
sobroquet Feb 2020
Please Approximate/Designate   Race: check  all that apply (if any)
pre employment query (optional ostensibly)

🀆American Indian
🀆 White
🀆Tenderfoot
🀆Half-Breed
🀆Crackers
🀆***
🀆*****
🀆Guineas
🀆Pol­acks
🀆Micks
🀆Black
🀆African American
🀆Hispanic
🀆 Non-Hispanic Latino
🀆Asian
🀆Ending in ease, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese…
🀆Filipino’s  (flips)
🀆Calico
🀆Hindi Indian, ****, Middle Eastern, Bedouins, Persian…
🀆Hawaiian, Polynesian, Oceanian
🀆Mixed Plate
🀆Semitic (****’s and Arabs)
🀆Translucent
🀆Freakasoides  (human)
🀆Alien, (outer space kine)
🀆Tuna-neck (any variety)
🀆Other
🀆Undecided
🀆None of your biz wax
🀆Beats all hell outta me
🀆WAT
🀆***
🀆Cannot compute
🀆Complete Miscegenation
🀆From whence do we commence this abstruse extrapolation?   (anglo saxon)
🀆**** All


©kwr
colloquial aspersions, slang, ancestry, race, anthropology, genealogy, time
https://www.pbs.org/show/your-inner-fish/
Sk Abdul Aziz Apr 2016
The desert hadn't witnessed rain for ages
The camels,the bedouins,every grain of sand
...they no longer hoped for any miracle
However there was something different about today
As i was making my way across the vast dunes of sand
I could feel a certain amount of excitement in the air
I could see the skies were bringing their 'A' game on
Dark and black...
...that's the look they had
It seemed as if after ages the skies had finally woken up
And decided that today wasn't going to be just another day in the desert
Today was going to be different
Today was going to be special
Then i saw the lightning
This was followed by shrieks of thunder
And finally the skies poured their heart out
And as the first drop kissed the desert
I could feel every single grain of sand dancing with joy
The desert hadn't tasted such happiness for many years
Today i had become a part of something special
Prior to this experience i had never believed in miracles
Today as i experienced the most magnificent miracle ever
I couldn't help but think to myself-
'Sometimes miracles do occur.'
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2018
Reverse colonisation
is the price of empire.
Ireland, the only non
colonizing european
state sadly missed out
on the Arab Diaspora.
It is my dream to see
Monsieur Cardin bequeath
his entire Lacoste portfolio
to the Bedouins.

All for one and one for Allah!!
Sk Abdul Aziz Oct 2017
From yesterday to today
In a span of 24 hours...my dear self
we've come a long way
We still have miles to travel
Countless destinations await us
So many strangers destined to meet us
Over the past few years...much has happened..
From crazy love to brutal heartbreaks we've seen it all...
From mountains to deserts to villages to cities
Sometimes watching the sun set in the desert sky
Sometimes dancing and singing with bedouins
Sometimes passing through the most picturesque of villages
From scaling snow capped mountains
To skinny dipping in the cold water bodies
Trying perhaps in vain to decipher life
Honestly I've stopped all this ******* now
What's my purpose here? ..how does it matter?
All I know is that as a person I have to try and be the best I can be...
So my dear self...it's a new day...it's a new show
Once again here we go......
Parable Dying with God: “In the seventh year BC, a Bedouin was going through the desert of the rabbinical princes, this man was going with his beard of a scribe or rabbi hurrying him, consequently and obtaining a doctorate in the law of the flock with camel hair that strangled by the neck and marked him with a thick and contoured baldric, for the first manly minutes of his vocal settlement that invited him to fully insert himself in Judea, in the Holy Spirit and in the fire of two Glasses of Vine, before two heralds and Masters who carried in their hands a silver dressing table, with kites of Abraham's vines, and which also hung from his back in gutted viper hides, shaking with proselytes that unclamped more life from a root and from the angelic tree. When he approached with a ceremonial formalism, the Bedouin focused between them, in the universe that separated them from the fangs of the vipers that surrounded him from the outburst of their fangs that he smeared with ink and litmus to write again to his family that in the vicinity awaited him. In case he did not arrive before the sixth day of the birth of Mariah of Nazareth, saying in his epistle: “Pretended and worthy tree of my family, I reveal to you a few days after my arrival in Nazareth, that I carry with me a good flock and vines that they are scattered in his Phylakterion, in two wineskins that supported following my epistle - continue with a pistol…; “Between the offense of my past lives and how not to separate myself from the water that still flows under it, I manifest miracles before my disciples, breaths, and before the rite of writing to them between two sitting next to me in the middle of the desert, to toast in two wineskins with wine and sticky fats drained from the Mezuzá, to then sit in front of you, in the distance of my arm that is not greater than the hand that separates from my wrist, and she herself from my elbow, telling them that in the saddlebags in my pantry, I carry the custody of two heads of crows that flee from the prejudiced pitchfork of my flock, separating the litter that splashes in my mouth with sieves and appropriates, with grains and wines that the fire will never extinguish "

Knowing that the heralds who accompanied him saw how they were exalted from the rancor of overseas and their designs, they became monarchical in their adherence by protecting them from where they were, without knowing if they were with their family, but if they were paralyzed by an idolatry of the sun and his fever in the ordinance of the Bedouin genre.

It continues: “with an irregular viper's tooth I write my feelings to you, as in daring baptismal purification of water that runs through the grains of the sands without evaporating, only in the cushion of Wine between Two, which I support with my heralds and their intricate gargles, with humility among them, shouting the ardor of the dove that will come from heaven with its holy solitude, individualized in the beings of the straying of the truth... "

Impelled by his epistle, the Bedouin absorbed himself from the beasts of the sunset and his communal patronage in other Bedouins who sat in their alleys through the desert, from other quarantines of wine and prayer, that tormented their thirst and hunger, before the surviving limb of devouring children who will never die for others who will satisfy their appetite, to control thirst and hunger, in bodies that will never feel it.

The Bedouin continues; "As the birthright of food in the bread and wine, during long episodes, I have separated from you. Today I proclaim myself in eternal patriarchy for the kinship of purging in this life, and their abstinence from death, mother and children will be seated on my right and my flock on the left, merging with the remains of the right hand...; in the anguish of my flesh, which cannot shine in yours, to supply them with miracles, isolation, and constraints of the attribute of a God-Man in the hoarse opening of the night "

After gathering the ink from the viper's fang…, he raised his arm that dripped the same other sooty serum, which differed from the smiling night to warm him with sweetness from what remained to write. Perhaps it would be Dying with God, prevented by himself that he did not do it in a hundred or a millennium where he declared the independence of a spirit, or in another faculty that provides extra-personal satisfaction of flushing on the battlements that awaited him to make crows and doves rest, and in all the lapses that do not speak of another chance that is not his own figure of breath, knocking on the gates of heaven to extend his prayers in existence and his sacred appointment with the most illustrious mystique.

The Bedouin continues “neither hunger nor thirst I will entrust to whoever does not know how to guide my flock, less the guardian who does not pick me up from stumbling from the empty desert that hurts and cuts more to whoever wants to be rescued from the pillars of the chandelier. I cannot resist your opinion, but I know that they are far from doing it, as father and son in golden graves with doctrines of name, before my superiors desire to catch on from some capes in Jordan, prompting the temptation to run between fires and mists of black prodigy and to die with God in the dry grass of the Lily "

Before the sophistry of probabilities from a quantum of the desert, this same one contracted and invigorated his ring finger to finish the lines that separated him from oblivion by his divine wine, which remained in his wineskin and then finished it together with his heralds, which They solemnly outsourced themselves to take them with the strength of the Simun that evaporated from the sweat and the suspension of the silica that suffocated them, rising swiftly for a third Wine proposal between two, inciting themselves in the power of their plenaries and the herds that they carried to their children minors.

The insolence of the person who called himself or named himself did not possess the incarnate verb that made him release the viper's tusk from his right hand, pre-existing elegies that held him in servitude, suffocating in the dark clouds, pointed out by the lamps that held him. from Aorion, as part of a gaunt progeny of immortal spirit. In this unthinkable way, the Simun withdrew absorbed, taking the viper and its inked tusk of speculation and triumphant apocalypse, to some corners of some prostitutes who were undermined in the keys of the redeemer's free will, depriving themselves before all who remained in the shin guards of man, and what is vulnerable from head to toe. The Bedouin, forcing himself to reconcile, jumps on the little blade of the Simun and climbs on it, to go after the viper's tusk, burning with courage in the ministry of temptation and the epistle that sinned before his eyes wanting to rewrite himself, to revive in it and leave aside the razors that circumcise the urgency and disobedience, on the hair of the camels that went with him, the honey that was in his head next to his hands that had stowed it, with some bees full of holy water feeding on temptations in which they have to flourish and in the hives of derision that were hung saying to him save yourself "

(Procorus was forced to deal with the battlements of the Bedouin station that wanted to continue in him, but determined to take the place of his consort, to finish drinking the wine of two and to help him Die with God)
Parable Dying with God
Patrick Ramsey Jan 2021
What should I do with the rose that doesn't smell like you?
What should I do with the spring without you?

What should I do with a sunrise without you?
What should I do with the world without you?
I do not want the rain that comes down without touching your skin, I do not want the breeze.

If the stars should shine, they should shine from you,
I do not want the star which does not burn with your love in the sky.

If the nightingales should sing, they should sing about you,
I do not want to even listen to a nightingale which does not sing of you.

If you are going to be my yearning then let my heart burn!
I do not want the foreign land and without your reunion, I do not want the motherland.

If a fire is going to burn me from my heart;
Let the fire of your love burn me!
If my heart turns into ashes other than your love, I do not want this heart!
I do not want the fire, I do not want the cinder.

The oasis in which I have not seen you, should belong to the bedouins;
I want your desert, I do not want the water.

If it's going to reach you I will not stop, I will walk on foot, but I do not want the direction that does not reach you at the end, I do not want the road.
I only want you as my destination.

I'm a volunteer slave, with earring on my ear.
I will pass one thousand shara's at once if it is going to conquer your heart!

Otherwise what is it to me?
I do not want this conquest, I do not want Egypt, I do not want the world!

I'm a Sultan of Fatih, and in front of Istanbul,
I will burn this city down, just for a smile on your face!

Otherwise I don't want the Sultanate that does not make your rose-face smile, I do not want Istanbul.

I'm a strange lover!
I'm writing about you, I'm burning for you.
I do not want the pen without your love, I do not want the paper.

I'm from your nation, you are my saviour,
I do not want any other saviour but you!
I do not want any Beloved other than you!
S R Mats Nov 2023
On the dry and empty ground
Covered in stubble brittle and bleached
Nothing exciting could have ever happened
In this barren place.
 
Yet, there, beneath them lay clues all around
Pointing to the ancient just within reach,
By an inquiring mind who goes out to seek.
They were men of that sort on bended knee.
 
The wastes between the Dead Sea
And beyond the Gulf of Aqaba pleaded,
"I am lost, come find me."
So, they unpacked their shovels, brushes & trowels,
At the foot of sandstone cliffs and started to dig.
 
Together with the Bedouins, the group slept on
A ground covered in their robes.  Strewn about lay
Piles of black ****, byproduct of copper smelting
Beckoning.  So, they ate the unleavened bread,
Just as did the freed Israelites who were fleeing Egypt. 
 
But then, of course.  Nothing ever happened here.
Dada Olowo Eyo Dec 2018
In the little lies we tell,
To make the other see,
Those things we want,
In that special way;

The elaborate tales we share,
To create that picture,
Every other has fantasised ,
And daily longed for;

It is presenting a manifesto,
To captivate and engage,
Selling sand to Bedouins,
Or water to Atlanteans;

Sides of the same coin,
There is a prize to be had,
The means matter less,
The end, however, is worth every gimmick.
As far as that country is concerned, the love of politics isn't different from the politics of love. Nigeria, infamously described as a **** hole country by  President Donald J. Trump, mirrors everything illogical about anything anyone might think of. And that is really sad.
Ryan O'Leary Apr 2022
I think

Therefore

Islam

But it is not the reason
For my insomnia

This is because I am
Woke

And holding a vigil
With reason

On the oasis of life
Where mirage manifests

And the illusion of
Caravanserai is real

Bedouins and Barbars
Black eyes on barren sands

Where oil the cause of crude
& blasphemous obscenity began.
Kelly McManus Jun 2021
Desert oasis
a good place for Bedouins
to rest their camels

                  Kelly McManus
ConnectHook Apr 2020
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree . . .


                                               Coleridge:­ Kubla Khan


Sheba’s ghost, lamenting, wails for Yemen:

Her incense trees are lacerated, scarred.

Sapped for their fragrance, drained of life and marred . . .

Their smoking blood offered up to heaven.

No sinuous rills flow forth to bless the dead;

Beneath her ruined dam no gardens grow;

And Bedouins only sing of what they know

In wastelands of the nomad past. It’s said

That all those spices, all that golden smoke

and irrigated dreams beneath the sand

were just a subtle Solomonic joke.

The yearly weight of gold, the camel-trains,

Are cryptic numbers—chanted in refrains

That only Marib’s phantoms understand.
Day 4 prompt: write a poem inspired by a dream

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20Kings%2010%3A14&version=KJV;NIV

— The End —