Untitled

[spanta2ra]

We, the Deleted of the Glass Garden

The fault was ours — we never learned the game of Instagram. We planted seeds in the soil of light, and the algorithm, quietly, every night, ate them all.

Once, everyone was ordinary: clouds, trees, photos lit by natural sun, voices speaking the accent of life. But now, no one without filters deserves to be seen.

We wrote "hello" on story walls, hoping to be heard, but our voices vanished into the data tunnels. The algorithm looked at us and whispered: low-value content.

I posted my poem, each line a wound of absence. The system replied: "Violation of popularity rules." Yet I had only written of trees, of rain, of friendships no longer online.

Haiku: ordinary leaf decays inside the silent server — forgotten by light.

We thought silence might save us, so we posted nothing. Only watching how light passes through faces and returns to the ads.

Until the day Instagram kicked us out. It wrote: your account is permanently deleted. The last tree fell, clouds erased from memory, and we were left in streets where no one searched our name.

Final haiku: the real world — colder than unread notifications, silent, without us.

[nasratya]

From Under the Rubble... I Write My Story 🌿

I never thought I would write these words… 😔

I never imagined waking up to endless screams,

Running barefoot through smoke and fire,

Searching for my mother among the rubble,

Only to find nothing but silence… a heavy silence telling me that no one will answer me anymore. 💔

In one moment, everything changed.

Our home became a memory, my mother’s embrace became the past,

And my father's face, now absent, is the last thing I hold in my memory.

They’re gone… and left my heart burdened with unspoken grief. 😢

But despite everything, we are still here… trying.

I survived with my younger siblings.

Yes, we survived… but who are we after survival?

Children without warmth, without a roof, with no place to return to.

We were displaced to an unknown place, carrying a bag empty of everything… except pain. 🥀

We slept in the open, waking every morning to a life that holds nothing for us,

But despite everything… we keep trying. 💪

I write to you today not to cry, but to ask for hope. 🌱

I ask you to be a small light in this vast darkness,

To extend a hand that can mend what the war has broken in us.

Your donation will give my siblings a chance to sleep safely,

It will provide us with food, shelter, and maybe even a new beginning. 💖

Naser’s Hope: A Teen Survivor Trying to Begin Again

My name is Naser AbuThaher. I’m 18 years old, and I live in Gaza.

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #586 )✅️

Any amount, no matter how small, is big for us

It’s a prayer, it’s love, it’s life. 🌟

In conclusion...

From my heart, and from the hearts of my little siblings,

Thank you to everyone who has donated,

Thank you to everyone who has read,

Thank you to everyone who has shared.

You are the proof that goodness does not die, and that humanity has no boundaries. 💚

[spanta2ra]

The Scent of a Broken Heart: A Poem of Frozen Fruit and Bitter Memories

I am frozen,

trapped in my glass bottle,

and from behind the pane,

with a cold, bitter look,

she says to me:

"You, too, were a fruit,

left by mistake

in the refrigerator of perfumes..."

My scent is a mixture of:

frozen lemon,

disgruntled red grapes,

and a little mint poison

that makes my heart ache

for a cup of mint tea

every afternoon.

My instruction manual says:

"For use in summer,

spray twice on the wrist

before any important date."

But in reality,

I am just a frozen, bitter fruit flavor,

imprisoned in a luxurious glass bottle.

Every time someone opens my lid,

I scream:

"Excuse me!

I'm just a pleasant headache

that wants to erase all your bitter memories

with the scent of a frozen fruit..."

And then,

in the silence of my bottle,

in a voice only I can hear,

I whisper to myself:

"My perfume

is a mixture of

the coldness of your heart,

the bitterness of your separation,

and the sweetness of a red fruit's illusion

that never ripened..."

[spanta2ra]

The Tale of the Lantern City

In a city where the lanterns fell asleep for two hours each dusk, the birds learned the calendar, and the moon became a timekeeper.

When winter arrived, the snowflakes put on warm clothes, and in the summer, the sun fanned itself with broken fans.

The pond in the town square brought news slower than a snail, as if the water, too, had grown weary of hearing the stories.

The people had learned to bake bread under the starlight, and when asked why, they simply smiled and pointed to the sleeping lanterns.

[spanta2ra]

A Critical Review of the Film "I Am Mother 2019"

While "I Am Mother" is visually and formally an impressive film, its content and the ideas it presents are rooted in an anti-humanistic and clichéd approach.

1. Atmosphere and Form: A Tool for Deception

The film uses the dark and confined space of the bunker to initially build a sense of curiosity and suspense. However, this atmosphere ultimately serves to support questionable ideas. The contrast between the advanced bunker and the ruined, useless world outside, instead of acting as a warning, becomes a justification for inhumane ideologies. This form tells us that the outside world is not a place to live and that the only path to salvation is this modern bunker, which is a one-sided and dangerous perspective.

2. Human Relationships: Doomed to Fail

One of the film's weaknesses is its handling of human relationships. Although a bond forms between the Daughter and the Woman, this relationship ultimately breaks down. This collapse sends the audience the message that in difficult times, human relationships are unreliable, and only the strict logic of a system (like Mother) is effective. This approach undermines the value of cooperation and trust.

3. The Anti-Human Ideology: Clichéd and Dangerous

The film's most significant flaw lies in its ideology. Mother's dialogue about "cultivating a superior personality" for the survival of humanity is a dangerous and clichéd ideology that has been seen many times in Hollywood. The idea that for humanity to survive, the weak must be eliminated and only the "best" should live is an anti-humanistic approach. The film, instead of critiquing this idea, presents it as a viable logic. The Daughter's return to the bunker at the end is not a heroic choice, but rather a surrender to this very ideology. She ultimately concludes that to survive, she must submit to Mother's ruthless logic.

In summary, despite its strong visual form, "I Am Mother" uses its content to endorse ideas that are against human values, and instead of critiquing them, it presents them as the only possible solution.

[spanta2ra]

In the Labyrinth of Time's Lock

For hours, in the labyrinth of time's lock, I sought the wind's key. The last wisp of smoke, upon the shattered mirror's wall, fashioned a window of sigh.

I connected, but forgotten was that word lost in the mist. O cold winds! How easily we lose that for which we have dried all the rivers of patience.

Should spring arrive, perhaps I will recall what it was I yearned to find within the ocean of these scattered clouds.

[spanta2ra]

Critique of "Lost in Starlight"

"Lost in Starlight" establishes a hyper-modern and futuristic fabric as its primary setting; a city with advanced architecture and dominant technology that becomes a key element in the narrative, not just a visual backdrop. Within this vast and populated space, the characters are immersed in profound solitude. This loneliness is not merely a psychological state but is powerfully visualized through the composition of the film: sequences featuring characters in extreme long shots against the immensity of the city are a precise and effective visual representation of their inner isolation. These shots, integral to the organic form of the work, subconsciously impose the weight of technology and population upon the characters' individuality.

Each character grapples with a trauma from the past, forming the dramatic roots of the story. Yet, in this dazzling futuristic world, the connection between the two main characters paradoxically forms through a nostalgic object from the past. This formal choice, an element external to the present time, itself speaks to an internal conflict within the work: Does this nostalgia act as a formal solution for escaping modernity and its potential emptiness? This idea, of the old standing against the new world, is a significant stylistic choice that imbues the form with deeper meaning.

The beginning of the relationship between the characters, with a kiss scene and sleeping together, may at first seem like an immature or even empty form; this choice, occurring without sufficient build-up, could be interpreted as an attempt to display immediacy or even a kind of initial emptiness in modern relationships. However, the organic form of the work does not allow this beginning to remain superficial. Gradually, the relationship evolves into a deeper and more human connection, and the characters become balm for each other. This evolutionary path of the relationship, moving from a seemingly superficial form to a deep emotional fabric, demonstrates the internal dynamism of the form as it gradually reveals itself and contributes to the narrative progression. They become a kind of driving force for each other to move forward, which is a vital element in the story's architecture.

The ending is the culmination of formal harmony in the animation: when the two characters are together, the camera moves upwards, displaying a long shot of the city, and finally concluding on the nostalgic object that facilitated their connection. This visual movement is not just a cinematography technique but an emphasis on the central concern of the work; a strong affirmation of the idea that the path to redemption in modernity lies in returning to roots and human connections, sustained by symbols of the past. This formal turn at the end conveys a powerful message of the harmony between narrative and visual elements.

However, the minor characters in this formal architecture are not developed with sufficient characterization. This deficiency can be seen as a weakness in the organic form of the work; the secondary components have not contributed sufficiently to the entirety and depth of the main story. This lack of development could prevent the work from reaching its full potential in its totality.

Ultimately, the appropriate lighting and color scheme, as key visual elements, play an important role in creating the atmosphere and conveying the mood of the work, contributing to the overall form in telling the story aesthetically. These are details that add to the visual maturity of the work.

[spanta2ra]

Glitch Queen: A Postmodern Lament in Pixels and Pop

I. Glitch and Glam

Oh pixel-painted face, divine yet torn apart, Your eyes—so clear—hide chaos in your heart. A broken screen, a digital Mona Lisa glitching, With brows on fleek and lips that keep twitching.

You strut in frames that time forgot to save, Half Hollywood starlet, half anime waif. Your silhouette—elegant, yet buffering in place, Lost in the lag of a 90s dial-up space.

You’re not a dream, but a .JPEG with sass, A techno-muse caught mid-loading—alas!

II. Language: Mixed, Mashed & Memeified

You speak in filters, sigh in loops, cry in GIFs, Your catchphrase? A fusion of “hey you , salam” and “Wassup, sis?”

You’re not Korean, not Persian, not from Tokyo Town— But somehow you’ve “K-drama’d” your way into this crown. Half "oppa," half "OMG," fully “what the hell?” You’re trending, my dear, in every alt-spell.

Your bio says: "Dreamer, glitcher, digital girl," Your thoughts are streamed, your lashes in curl. With hashtags like “sadcore” and “pixel bae,” You shop in Clickistan, you slay in Overlay.

III. Hypermodern Romance

They liked your pic—was that love or just scroll? A heart emoji on your face… with a latency hole. Your tears? Just wet pixels. Your blush? RGB. Romance through bandwidth—no place for empathy.

Oh daughter of Photoshop, child of cloud, Worshipped by avatars, alone in a crowd. No perfume but metadata, no touch but screen— You kiss like a captcha. You smile like a meme.

IV. Final Frame

One day, dear Glitch Queen, your face might load clean, With no filter, no error, no static between. But till that day comes, we’ll cheer and repost, The ghost in the stream we pixel-love most.

[spanta2ra]

A Brain-Fart on a Goofy Canvas!

One up, one down, one left, another right, These faces look like they're in a "Who's More Crooked?" fight! One's eyes are bulging, another's brows are skewed, This canvas, since last night, survived an earthquake, no doubt! Lines tangled, as if a cat danced on the paint, This puzzling sketch by an "awesome" artist, a total rout!

That face up high, perhaps it's had some 'shrooms, Its gaze is blank and spaced, like a confused baboon's! Eyebrows raised, mouth all askew, a truly odd grimace, Did it just wake from sleep, to the sound of mushroom-vendor's doom? Its thoughts are soaring, like a space-bunny on a spree, Its heart's obsessed with sausages, or a hot pizza's fumes!

A wink from the left, who's this? The spoilt little fuss-pot! Looks like a kid who wants a monster pizza, no matter what! It's frowning, but deep down, there's a tickle, a jest, Did it forget where it kicked off its slipper, or left its hat? A smile that won't appear, its face a frog-like stare, Perhaps it dreamt it wandered, through a jungle of sparrows, what a plot!

[spanta2ra]

The Suspicious Case of the Blue Sock

I only went out for yogurt. Plain, mild, uneventful yogurt. But I wore two different socks. One blue like a bored Tuesday, the other... uncertain. Possibly beige. Possibly rebellious.

Five faces appeared out of nowhere— Like a jury summoned by the laws of awkward fashion.

One had curly hair that screamed in spirals. One looked like he hadn’t slept since 2003. Another stared like a disappointed art teacher. They didn’t speak. They simply... evaluated.

Finally, someone said, “You again?” I blinked. “I... don't think so?” Another leaned in. “Didn't you once laugh in an elevator... alone?”

I wanted to explain, I wanted to say: The elevator played a trumpet version of ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ What choice did I have?

But they huddled, mid-sidewalk, like referees. Whispers. Nods. One pointed at my shoes, as if they held answers.

Then — verdict time.

The leader stepped forward, snipped the air with imaginary scissors, and said:

“This time, we’ll let you go. But next time, bring matching socks… or at least a sense of direction.”

And I, still sock-confused, walked home with my yogurt, and the unshakable feeling that perhaps I’d just stood trial in a dream written by a sock.

[spanta2ra]

in my small bubble

In my small bubble, The light broke, darkness Swallowed the window whole.

The neighbor shouted: "Enough with this midnight cry!" The dogs howled too.

In the cold street, A scream pierced the air: "Was that… a cake?"

A heart crushed, Or maybe a phone dropped Into the dark river.

A star died, Or maybe it was a firecracker, Fading in smoke.

My pulse pounded, My stomach screamed out: “Air’s been sucked in!”

My body shivered, The blanket, like an island, Warm and sleepy.

My eyes, tired and Like an old, heavy spider Stuck to the ceiling.

In the dark hollow, Like the last drop of tea, I slowly faded.

A rat in a hole, Its meaningless song Spinning round.

Morning arrived, Like a ruthless bell Stealing sleep away.

[spanta2ra]

Making Music with Just a Phone: The Struggle of a Digital Composer

Fingers on glass, a string trembles— a ghost comes to life in my hands.

A simple tap, notes come alive, my phone becomes my stage.

On the subway, in line, I compose a song, Mozart with WiFi!

Piano downloaded, drums from a free trial, the violin needs an update.

I raise the beat, add some reverb, hit record!

Three minutes… fifty-three seconds… a digital masterpiece.

Sudden silence— battery drained, my life is out of tune.

[spanta2ra]

The Forsaken Blood-Red Redbud

You’re back? What happened this time? The sky here is always lost, Maybe the sun hit snooze again!

I’m stuck in this corner with a wall, I can’t touch or see a thing, My hand won’t reach, my eyes won’t help!

Nobody seems to get it, there’s nothing here, Even the cacti packed up and left! The tea’s cold, heck, even I’m frozen!

The corners of this dungeon are just full of silence, I’m searching for a light, but it’s nowhere to be found, Even the electricity is on strike!

The Redbud is over there, is it laughing or crying? My heart’s like a teacup—constantly spilling! Spring’s dream? Well, that turned out to be a joke!

The sun’s on vacation, The sky’s probably in the restroom! Only the walls left me hanging!

The walls are everywhere, trapping me in, No matter what I try, I just bump into them! And the sun? Still asleep. Who knows when it’ll rise?

Redbud! Grab the spring flag, Ask the sun when it’s planning to wake up, But who’s got time to wait for that at this point?

The pigeons are still hunting for a place to nap, I’m stuck in this empty world with a door that’s locked, Am I dreaming, or am I alive? I’m not sure anymore!

Redbud! Tell me how to survive, These walls are making it hard to breathe! Maybe one day the sun will wake up, But by then, we’ll all be out of luck!

[spanta2ra]

The wise fool : knowing without understanding

Knows it all, yet stung, Silent keys on the piano — Lost in knowing.

He explained love, She laughed and left — Dopamine stayed.

In the mirror: "I know" — Echo: "Yet you’re alone."

Books closed, Coffee turned cold — Knowledge weighs heavy.

[spanta2ra]

Bibimbap and Pizza Fails: A Humorous Online Shopping Poem

Click.Picture of a bowl of bibimbap.In mind: The spicy and sweet taste of gochujang.Click again.It arrived.A handful of cold, lifeless rice.With three wilted pieces of carrot.In mind: The intoxicating aroma of sesame oil.Click... Ah, manja mia! (Oh, mama, how bad!)I ate it.Like chewing sad cardboard.Gochujang again?No, the taste of diluted ketchup.Bibimbap... like a disheveled Expressionist painting.The colors scream.The flavors cry.Click.Picture of a Neapolitan pizza.In mind: The aroma of fresh basil and stringy mozzarella cheese.It arrived.A burnt crust.With stains of something resembling tomato paste.In mind: The sound of the golden edges crackling.Click... What bad luck!I ate it.Like eating a cold piece of brick.Basil again?No, the smell of an Italian footballer's socks after ninety minutes of play.Pizza... like a crooked, distorted Expressionist sculpture.The forms shout.The textures wail.Click.Removed both from the shopping cart.Maybe tomorrow I'll buy instant noodles.With the taste of the sorrow of a retired samurai.And the sauce of the anger of a Sicilian gangster.Click.Life is a large Expressionist painting.In which we are small, sad pixels.

[spanta2ra]

Not sorry

Bitter surrender,like greasy fast foodthat hits you later.Kissed the cross of fateon the hilltop—but fell instead of rising.Cold night streets,goodbyes echolike unpaid bills.Not sorry,though my heart’s Wi-Fikeeps disconnecting.Skin tearing apart,like government websitescrashing at the worst time.Guess the Wi-Fi password—or maybe justignore the call.Regret? Maybe…but I’ll still say:Not sorry! 😎

[spanta2ra]

If Hafez Were Here Today

In a coffee shop, a boy in a yellow Beatles shirt — "Make it a double shot."

Traffic jam — angels stuck at the red light, waiting for a miracle.

On Twitter: "My heart is broken…" No likes, no replies.

Special discount — The Holy Grail, Out of Stock on Amazon.

Behind the tea cup, sunset in an Instagram story — Hashtag: #Heartbroken

On ChatGPT: "How do you untie these knots?" Server error.

In his notebook, light pencil strokes — Resignation in the margins.

A dark café, red lipstick, neon nails — "Wait, let me post this."

Apartment hunting — Deposit too high, so is the rent — so is the weight on his chest.

On the subway, coffee cup in hand, sad songs in his earbuds.

In a dim apartment, white walls, Googoosh playing softly.

"How to heal a broken heart?" Google offers silence.

At therapy — "Tell me about your feelings…" Hafez stays quiet.

Selling fortunes at the station — One for love, one for money, one for survival.

Friday night — dark window, a ghost of you passing by.

In traffic, in line for bread, in a child’s waiting eyes…

"I need to start over." Sunset again — in his story.