@iib.500: #قصايد_شعر_خواطر_شيلات_الاكسبلور

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Wednesday 15 January 2025 17:12:31 GMT

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F.atom’Ahmad :

معقوله ماهو زماننا ؟🥺

2025-01-17 14:00:05

6

شوقي💕 :

والله ماهو زماني فعلا 🤍🚶🏽‍♀️

2025-01-16 08:01:46

5

12:12 :

الله الله

2025-04-18 04:12:14

2

🩵🖇️ :

الفتن ونميمه خربت كل العلاقات والي قلوبهم بيضاء قليل والخبثاء كثير

2025-01-17 22:25:55

3

🎞️ :

ماهو زماني):

2025-04-03 21:17:41

1

SH :

نفس إحساسي ماحس ابد انه زماني والناس الي حولي ماهم ناسي 🤓🤌🏻

2025-03-29 19:08:04

1

q_22_22 :

آه والله تعبت …نفسي ارجع لنفسي القديمه سعة بال وخاطر وضحكة من قلب 🥺

2025-01-18 18:55:19

2

آيسكريمة بنت عسكريم|الأسطورة🍧 :

الزمن زماني لكن بعض اللي حولي من بشر مايستاهلوا الرحابة واللطافة

2025-01-18 01:40:34

2

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There was a time when having a neighbour was more than geography—it was a bond, almost sacred. Not written in ink or law, but in laughter across fences, in shared burdens, in doors left ajar long after sunset. Back then, there was no wall too high, no gate too proud. Between our homes stood a small wooden fence with a swinging latch—paint chipped, but always open. It was the kind of gate you didn’t knock at. You simply walked through, with a bowl in hand or a story to tell. A visitor to one home was welcomed in both. Children ran between kitchens, and elders swapped remedies and warnings. Grief never arrived to just one doorstep—it was carried together. And when joy visited, it rang out in stereo, two households laughing as one. We borrowed without shame—sugar, salt, cooking oil, a tomato or two. But what we were really borrowing was comfort. A reminder that we were not alone. That someone nearby was watching your lights, your days, your silences. Children could eat dinner at one home and sleep in the other without a second thought. There was trust like blood, built slowly across seasons of shared living. We weren’t neighbours—we were extensions of each other’s families. Now, in the city, especially in these quiet, vertical apartments, something has been lost. Doors are heavier. Eyes meet less. We live beside names we don’t know, and sleep beside lives we’ve never touched. And though we may have all the groceries we need, sometimes, I miss the old gate. The one that creaked open not just between fences—but between hearts.

There was a time when having a neighbour was more than geography—it was a bond, almost sacred. Not written in ink or law, but in laughter across fences, in shared burdens, in doors left ajar long after sunset. Back then, there was no wall too high, no gate too proud. Between our homes stood a small wooden fence with a swinging latch—paint chipped, but always open. It was the kind of gate you didn’t knock at. You simply walked through, with a bowl in hand or a story to tell. A visitor to one home was welcomed in both. Children ran between kitchens, and elders swapped remedies and warnings. Grief never arrived to just one doorstep—it was carried together. And when joy visited, it rang out in stereo, two households laughing as one. We borrowed without shame—sugar, salt, cooking oil, a tomato or two. But what we were really borrowing was comfort. A reminder that we were not alone. That someone nearby was watching your lights, your days, your silences. Children could eat dinner at one home and sleep in the other without a second thought. There was trust like blood, built slowly across seasons of shared living. We weren’t neighbours—we were extensions of each other’s families. Now, in the city, especially in these quiet, vertical apartments, something has been lost. Doors are heavier. Eyes meet less. We live beside names we don’t know, and sleep beside lives we’ve never touched. And though we may have all the groceries we need, sometimes, I miss the old gate. The one that creaked open not just between fences—but between hearts.

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