The Uneducated Girls of the East

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Avatar for anatolian
3 years ago
Topics: Story, Poetry, Freewriting, History, Life, ...

In Eastern Anatolian towns, girls did not teach much after primary school. It was not uncommon for adult girls to carry a flag in front of the people of the sentence, even if they were in school uniforms. Fortunately, my father was a very forward-thinking man, and unlike other daughters, he used to carry my top-to-bottom star card in the inner pocket of his jacket as a pride.

On the other hand, this situation was destroying my chance of failing at my school. Long story short, despite all my responsibilities placed on my back, I did not have the luxury of failing my studies. Today I think it is good that my conditions were like that. Otherwise, instead of writing these lines now, I would be the mother of a middle-aged man's children, a housewife. My dreams of reading would also become moldy when I thought of being packed into a bundle and making a hand dowry.

The children, oh those children, were not excited as they jumped down the creaking wooden stairs three by five! Every time I saw them like that, my heart would come to my mouth. Since I am the eldest of eight siblings, I would tremble like a mother's heart, not like an older sister, when I saw them all in that uproar. Although the years have passed, the source of that huge sense of responsibility on me is that I am one of thousands of “big sister mothers”.

I hadn't been afraid to get up at night to see if my brothers were breathing, or if something happened to someone. During the long winter nights, the flaky snow covered our roofs like a white duvet while I covered the duvets sliding over my brothers with the same affection and innocence. I would throw two shovels of coal so that our stove would not go out, and I would meet my most loyal friends, namely my books, in the light of the night lamp. And I would listen to the lullabies that I could not hear from my mother's voice because of their busyness from the street fountain flowing with a delicate murmur at the corner.

Mirror of the Broken Heart

Chain noun phrases and skidding roads,

Intricate, non-crush festival and love.

Actually, I am not worried about grammatical spelling when cutting words.

From the painful failat, from the strange ones, from the second new ones.

Without knowing why, I hold pebbles above other stones, they come to me more privileged, more elite and heavy tonnage.

One night I reproduced the idiom of empty set and ineffective element into the blue needle pot, I didn't want anyone to hear my voice.

We sat on a chair, we first experienced tea and then love from the old ones.

We uploaded data analysis, we also talked about inferences, gains and losses.

There is no winner in pleasant love, ours is from the old-school side.

Hush, keep quiet.

The soul is a kind of migration that cannot find its place,

He searches for his paradise and stops, in the land of exile.

I'm like colors of elevation on a love map

Blue, yellow, orange and coffee then climax,

I turn into a wise man, with a white weight in my hair.

It can be said that it is smoked or drunk a lot, meaning more than the calorie of my expectations in my attachment planes.

It's time to say goodbye at right angles,

O love, the mood of walking your way is enough for me,

Let there be no vuslat.

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3 years ago
Topics: Story, Poetry, Freewriting, History, Life, ...

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