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City (short story) [Pashtu] / Mohammad Khalis Adib
Everyone who looked up would tremble a moment later, fall to the ground, and the shopkeepers would pour cold water on them.
After a long delay, he regained his composure and asked my father:
What’s the story?
He put his hand on my forehead, moving his dry lips under the black bra:
It’s hot, son!
I saw several people in a row, one question after another in my mind, about the people who fell to the ground, slowly the wind blew, collecting dead dust from the road, on the faces of everyone in the city. I was sitting in a gray circle, holding my father’s hand, pulling one finger at a time, and when he looked around, tears welled up in his eyes, and I said to him:
He shrugged, and rolled his eyes.
No, the wind filled my eyes with dust
Then he looked up at the sheet, took a deep breath, put his boat lip under his teeth, and told me to move:
What a son!
I’m thirsty for a little water
He told me to stop, took a few steps forward, and talked to the shopkeeper.
A woman in a black hijab passed by me, fell down for a moment, touched the gray-bearded Kozi who was sitting on the chair, splashed water on her face, and stood with a gun on the side of several people. I looked up, I saw the amputated arm and leg, it had a bad effect on me, I fell down, I didn’t understand myself anymore, once I looked up, there was a hospital, the serum was half open, what would you do? Let me tell you, the whole city was in ruins, the streets were less crowded, the people of Kabul were refreshed, but I will tell you one thing:
I appreciate the president’s final decision anyway
He got up in the room, looked down from the third floor of the city hustle and bustle, put his cigarette to his lips, pointed to the screen of his cell phone, and said:
I can’t blame Kabul for the leaders of hatred
There you and I met for the first time