Mr. Somalia

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  1. Posted

    The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot

     

    I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

     

    APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding

    Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

    Memory and desire, stirring

    Dull roots with spring rain.

    Winter kept us warm, covering

    Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

    A little life with dried tubers.

    Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

    With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

    And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

    And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

    Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

    And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,

    My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,

    And I was frightened. He said, Marie,

    Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

    In the mountains, there you feel free.

    I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

     

    What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

    Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

    You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

    A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

    And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

    And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

    There is shadow under this red rock,

    (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

    And I will show you something different from either

    Your shadow at morning striding behind you

    Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

    I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

     

    Frisch weht der Wind

    Der Heimat zu.

    Mein Irisch Kind,

    Wo weilest du?

     

    'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;

    'They called me the hyacinth girl.'

    —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

    Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

    Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

    Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

    Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

    Od' und leer das Meer.

     

    Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,

    Had a bad cold, nevertheless

    Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,

    With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,

    Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,

    (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

    Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,

    The lady of situations.

    Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,

    And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,

    Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,

    Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find

    The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

    I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

    Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,

    Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:

    One must be so careful these days.

     

    Unreal City,

    Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

    A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

    I had not thought death had undone so many.

    Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

    And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

    Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,

    To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours

    With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

    There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson!

    'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!

    'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

    'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

    'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

    'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,

    'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!

    'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'

     

    II. A GAME OF CHESS

     

    THE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,

    Glowed on the marble, where the glass

    Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines

    From which a golden Cupidon peeped out

    (Another hid his eyes behind his wing)

    Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra

    Reflecting light upon the table as

    The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,

    From satin cases poured in rich profusion;

    In vials of ivory and coloured glass

    Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,

    Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused

    And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air

    That freshened from the window, these ascended 90

    In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,

    Flung their smoke into the laquearia,

    Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.

    Huge sea-wood fed with copper

    Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,

    In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.

    Above the antique mantel was displayed

    As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene

    The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king

    So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale

    Filled all the desert with inviolable voice

    And still she cried, and still the world pursues,

    'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.

    And other withered stumps of time

    Were told upon the walls; staring forms 105

    Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.

    Footsteps shuffled on the stair.

    Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair

    Spread out in fiery points

    Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

     

    'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

    'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.

    'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?

    'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'

     

    I think we are in rats' alley

    Where the dead men lost their bones.

     

    'What is that noise?'

    The wind under the door.

    'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'

    Nothing again nothing.

    'Do

    'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember

    'Nothing?'

    I remember

    Those are pearls that were his eyes.

    'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'

    But

    O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—

    It's so elegant

    So intelligent 130

    'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'

    'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street

    'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?

    'What shall we ever do?'

    The hot water at ten.

    And if it rains, a closed car at four.

    And we shall play a game of chess,

    Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

     

    When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—

    I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,

    HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME

    Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.

    He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you

    To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.

    You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,

    He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.

    And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,

    He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,

    And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.

    Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.

    Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.

    HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME

    If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.

    Others can pick and choose if you can't.

    But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.

    You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.

    (And her only thirty-one.)

    I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,

    It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.

    (She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)

    The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.

    You are a proper fool, I said.

    Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,

    What you get married for if you don't want children?

    HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME

    Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,

    And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—

    HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME

    HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME

    Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.

    Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.

    Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

     

    III. THE FIRE SERMON

     

    THE river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf

    Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind

    Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.

    Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

    The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,

    Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends

    Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.

    And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;

    Departed, have left no addresses.

    By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...

    Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,

    Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

    But at my back in a cold blast I hear

    The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

     

    A rat crept softly through the vegetation

    Dragging its slimy belly on the bank

    While I was fishing in the dull canal

    On a winter evening round behind the gashouse

    Musing upon the king my brother's wreck

    And on the king my father's death before him.

    White bodies naked on the low damp ground

    And bones cast in a little low dry garret,

    Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.

    But at my back from time to time I hear

    The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring

    Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.

    O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter

    And on her daughter

    They wash their feet in soda water

    Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

     

    Twit twit twit

    Jug jug jug jug jug jug

    So rudely forc'd.

    Tereu

     

    Unreal City

    Under the brown fog of a winter noon

    Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant

    Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants

    C.i.f. London: documents at sight,

    Asked me in demotic French

    To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel

    Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

     

    At the violet hour, when the eyes and back

    Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits

    Like a taxi throbbing waiting,

    I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,

    Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see

    At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives

    Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,

    The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights

    Her stove, and lays out food in tins.

    Out of the window perilously spread

    Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,

    On the divan are piled (at night her bed)

    Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.

    I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs

    Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—

    I too awaited the expected guest.

    He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,

    A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,

    One of the low on whom assurance sits

    As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.

    The time is now propitious, as he guesses,

    The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,

    Endeavours to engage her in caresses

    Which still are unreproved, if undesired.

    Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;

    Exploring hands encounter no defence;

    His vanity requires no response,

    And makes a welcome of indifference.

    (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all

    Enacted on this same divan or bed;

    I who have sat by Thebes below the wall

    And walked among the lowest of the dead.)

    Bestows on final patronising kiss,

    And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...

     

    She turns and looks a moment in the glass,

    Hardly aware of her departed lover;

    Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:

    'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'

    When lovely woman stoops to folly and

    Paces about her room again, alone,

    She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,

    And puts a record on the gramophone.

     

    'This music crept by me upon the waters'

    And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.

    O City city, I can sometimes hear

    Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,

    The pleasant whining of a mandoline

    And a clatter and a chatter from within

    Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls

    Of Magnus Martyr hold

    Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

     

    The river sweats

    Oil and tar

    The barges drift

    With the turning tide

    Red sails

    Wide

    To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.

    The barges wash

    Drifting logs

    Down Greenwich reach

    Past the Isle of Dogs.

    Weialala leia

    Wallala leialala

     

    Elizabeth and Leicester

    Beating oars

    The stern was formed

    A gilded shell

    Red and gold

    The brisk swell

    Rippled both shores

    Southwest wind

    Carried down stream

    The peal of bells

    White towers

    Weialala leia

    Wallala leialala

     

    'Trams and dusty trees.

    Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew

    Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees

    Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'

    'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart

    Under my feet. After the event

    He wept. He promised "a new start".

    I made no comment. What should I resent?'

    'On Margate Sands.

    I can connect

    Nothing with nothing.

    The broken fingernails of dirty hands.

    My people humble people who expect

    Nothing.'

    la la

     

    To Carthage then I came

     

    Burning burning burning burning

    O Lord Thou pluckest me out

    O Lord Thou pluckest

     

    burning

     

    IV. DEATH BY WATER

     

     

    PHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,

    Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell

    And the profit and loss.

    A current under sea

    Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell

    He passed the stages of his age and youth

    Entering the whirlpool.

    Gentile or Jew

    O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,

    Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

     

    V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID

     

    AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces

    After the frosty silence in the gardens

    After the agony in stony places

    The shouting and the crying

    Prison and place and reverberation

    Of thunder of spring over distant mountains

    He who was living is now dead

    We who were living are now dying

    With a little patience

     

    Here is no water but only rock

    Rock and no water and the sandy road

    The road winding above among the mountains

    Which are mountains of rock without water

    If there were water we should stop and drink

    Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think

    Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand

    If there were only water amongst the rock

    Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit

    Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit

    There is not even silence in the mountains

    But dry sterile thunder without rain

    There is not even solitude in the mountains

    But red sullen faces sneer and snarl

    From doors of mudcracked houses

    If there were water

    And no rock

    If there were rock

    And also water

    And water

    A spring

    A pool among the rock

    If there were the sound of water only

    Not the cicada

    And dry grass singing

    But sound of water over a rock

    Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees

    Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop

    But there is no water

     

    Who is the third who walks always beside you?

    When I count, there are only you and I together

    But when I look ahead up the white road

    There is always another one walking beside you

    Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded

    I do not know whether a man or a woman

    —But who is that on the other side of you?

     

    What is that sound high in the air

    Murmur of maternal lamentation

    Who are those hooded hordes swarming

    Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth

    Ringed by the flat horizon only

    What is the city over the mountains

    Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air

    Falling towers

    Jerusalem Athens Alexandria

    Vienna London

    Unreal

     

    A woman drew her long black hair out tight

    And fiddled whisper music on those strings

    And bats with baby faces in the violet light

    Whistled, and beat their wings

    And crawled head downward down a blackened wall

    And upside down in air were towers

    Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours

    And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

     

    In this decayed hole among the mountains

    In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

    Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel

    There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.

    It has no windows, and the door swings,

    Dry bones can harm no one.

    Only a cock stood on the rooftree

    Co co rico co co rico

    In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust

    Bringing rain

     

    Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves

    Waited for rain, while the black clouds

    Gathered far distant, over Himavant.

    The jungle crouched, humped in silence.

    Then spoke the thunder

    D A

    Datta: what have we given?

    My friend, blood shaking my heart

    The awful daring of a moment's surrender

    Which an age of prudence can never retract

    By this, and this only, we have existed

    Which is not to be found in our obituaries

    Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider

    Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor

    In our empty rooms

    D A

    Dayadhvam: I have heard the key

    Turn in the door once and turn once only

    We think of the key, each in his prison

    Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison

    Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours

    Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus

    D A

    Damyata: The boat responded

    Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar

    The sea was calm, your heart would have responded

    Gaily, when invited, beating obedient

    To controlling hands

     

    I sat upon the shore

    Fishing, with the arid plain behind me

    Shall I at least set my lands in order?

     

    London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

     

    Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina

    Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow

    Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie

    These fragments I have shored against my ruins

    Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.

    Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

     

    Shantih shantih shantih

  4. Posted

    ^

    Oo soo ma ogid marqaanku chaptarro baddan aan run ahayn inuu dadka jaadka daaqa tuso? It causes people to hallucinate and have an erroneous perception of reality-- thus making them incapable of distinguishing your so-called 'chapters' of reality from 'chapters' of fiction. And, I'm afraid, you and some other Marfishlanders on SOL, have been displaying the telltale signs of these symptoms for many years now. However; I believe once you sober up from this drug induced illusions that you call somaliland and I call Marfishland-- then you will see things like every other Somali person does: That there is no such thing in this world. But until then, continue to delude yourself, that that wondrous figment of your imagination or la-la land in your head, created by your fictitious thoughts is real.

  5. Posted

    ^

     

    Originally posted by Xaji_Xunjuf:

    may allah bless his soul he will go down in history as the father of the nation of somaliland.

    I believe, the history books already have him down as one of the founding fathers of the Somali Republic. Therefore, it wouldn't be wise to tarnish his reputation by associating his esteemed name to the history of a nonentity such as Marfishland.

     

    Marka Xaaji Marduuf, intaad odeyga isleydahay aanu amaano ayaad qashin magaciisa ku rogaysaa, ee ka jooji!

  6. Posted

    ^

    Please stop the high pitched whining and self righteous castigation of your betters, Kashafa!- and for once direct your vitriol appropriately, towards the men who almost "bakhtified" Fu'ad Shangole. If that doesn't give you the desired satisfaction: I'd suggest you consult a psychiatrist and whine to your heart's content-- even though, it will not further your overall quest of justifying religious deviancy in Somalia, but I can guarantee you'll walk away with a prescription that will, at the very least, help with the constant whining and b!tching about Puntland on this forum.

     

    Good luck.

  7. Posted

    ^

    Then can you kindly humor us by providing a link to this Minister's condemnation of the Mosque attacks,which I admit he has every right to do so. Also, why do you think, Sharif Hotel could not bother himself to personally decry those attacks, after-all the Bakara market is right across from his home?

     

    Until then, unless you can proof of it being otherwise, I suggest you let me continue to insist that Puntland's Culima and leader were the only ones to have condemned those attacks-- whilst Sharif Hotel has remained silent about it.

     

    Better post your proof NOW, caanoboorelicious! :D

  8. Posted

    ^^

     

    General Duke, this is precisely the thing that confuses the heck out of these simpletons: why is it that the Culima and the leader of the big bad wolves of Puntland are the ONLY ones who have openly condemned the attacks on the mosques, when everyone else in Somalia, including Sharif Hotel, seems to be nonchalant about the whole issue?

     

    This indeed does not coagulate well with their silly paranoid delusions of Puntland and its' peoples.

  11. Posted

    ^

    Not even close and not even funny, try as you may.

     

    Anigu, boqol jeer baan kuu iri: Nimankaan waalan intey maskaxda quful kaaga dhufteen ayee furihiina miino ku qarxiyeen. Si aan kuu galo aniguna waan garan la'ahay? :D

     

    Laakin sidaasoy tahay, waxaan rabay inaan ku weediiyo... adigu ma waxaad tahay kuwa aad tiri waa shaqaale, mise waxaad ka mid tahay saraakiisha, who's duties, among other things, also includes being a top notch hypocrite? If I were a betting man, I'd put my money on the latter. What says you? :D

  12. Posted

    ^

    Ninyahow, amaad gadaal bahasha ka edit-garaysay--waayo hadaayeeto si kale ayee u qornedee.

     

    Calaaya kuli xaal; Culimaadaan aad hada bayaankooda aad kusoo qoratay meeshaan, waa culimo reer Puntland-ah-- Waxayna ka mid yihiin, dadka aad rabtay shalayto moryaanta cimaamadaha xiran oo rabshadaha ka wada gobollada dhexe, iney dagaal ku kiciyaan oo aad nabaddooda aad wax yeeshid.

     

    Marka nimankaan marna ma ku jihaadaysa oo waxaad leedahay ha la weeraro, marna ma waxaad leedahay bayaannadooda ayaan ictiraafsanahay oo aan daabacanayaa? Anigu,waxaan kuu gula talin lahaa... inaad labo bugleynta aad iska daysid oo aad hal dhinac aad ku adkaysatid.

     

    So, which is it gonna be? Culimadaan reer Puntland ma xushmayn doontaa, mise dhiig gooda ina la qubo ayaad u olol-leyn doontaa? :D

     

    p.s

    LOL @ "goormeyse ALP actual source u noqotay Culimada?" :D

     

    Maaddeey, ma ogid miyaa iney ALLPuntland, wixii kuli fii cindi geel ku saabsan Puntland, Source iney u tahay? LOL.. :D

     

    Laakin runtii ALLPuntland waa meesha moryaanta khabaarkeeda lagu soo qoro oo af hayeenka u ah Al Shababka. Marka, adiga iyo iyagaba waxaad isku kay dhantaan majiro.

     

    Waa shabakadaadi ee haka cararin! :D

  13. Posted

    ^

    I think you need some basic education in honesty, Mr. Maaddeey. I don't even think you have a clue of the hypocrisy in your last statement, do you?

     

    Let me explain it to you: If as you say, "he teaches young 'Mujaahideen' the ways and 'fadl' of 'Jihaad'"--then why is he NOT at the forefront in the pursuit of this very same good 'fadl', by blowing himself too?

     

    Now kindly explain why you are asking God to prolong his pathetic existence(quote:"Ilaahow cimri dheer sii") when he could be getting a Lion's share of the "fadl of Jihaad" by simply practicing what he preaches? Or I do sense a hint of hypocrisy in your point of view on this issue, as well? :D

  14. Posted

    Originally posted by Tuujiye:

     

    one more game!!!!! Wigen won last time lool no one is talking about it!! waxaas ani ma jecli yaaqee..I hope chelsea in eesan yasin ciyaalkaan oo iskaga imaan doono in ee u ciyaaraan bashaalee...

     

    I agree: We should not count our chickens before they are hatched. Wigan can still surprise us.

     

    p.s

    I think Liverpool were saving their best perfomance for their big game v Hull next Sunday. :D

  15. Posted

    ^

     

    Damn right! If he wants to be a shahiid, he ought to strap a vest on himself and blow himself, instead of filling nonsense into a 15 year old boy's head, and asking him to blow himself.

     

    See, this is why I say he is a MUNAAFIQ: A total hypocrite, who deserves everything he's got coming to him, Insha-Allah.

  16. Posted

    Maaddeey:

     

    War ninyahow anigu ummad Soomaaliyeed oo aan waxba geesan in masaajid Ilaahay dhexdiisa lagu qarxiyo runtii waan kasoo horjeeda oo ruux Muslim ah ayaan ahay; laakin waxaan aaminsanahay, Fu'aad Shangoole iyo inta kale oo lamidka ah, oo dhibaatada ku haya ummada Soomaliyeed-- waxay geysteen ina laga gudo waan qabaa. Adiguna kuwaan ummada Soomaaliyeed dhibta ku haya ayaad difaac utahay-- marka saas darteed yaanu isku fahmi karin. :D

     

    Also, dhowrka xaraf oo carabiga-ah oo aad meesha kusoo qortayna, ha umaleynin inaad dadka kaga cilmi badantahay ama aad diinta kaga xigtid toona.

     

    And with that said, I'd like to conclude with this... :cool:

    Diintu waa mid qura

    Lama qaybin karo

    Ninba suu u qabo

    Uma qaadan karo

    Qorshe weeye guud

    Qalad aan lahayn

    Qanac baan ku ahay

     

    Waxay diintu qabin

    Qaadirkeen na farin

    Qool Rasuul ahayn

    Naftood quusatiyo

    Qarax haku dhiman

     

    Qisadii Thamuud

    Caad qoomul luudh

    Qoomamkii la rogay

    Aayaduhu qorayn

    Wax ku qaadashee

    Qasadkayd ahayd

     

    Waxay diintu qabin

    Qaadirkeen na farin

    Qool Rasuul ahayn

    Naftood quusatiyo

    Qarax haku dhiman

     

    Qudha oo la jaro

    Dhiig Islaan la qubo

    Qacdiyo qucdeer

    Aan qaboobahayn

    Qaxootiga nabadey

    Qiil ma leh fitnadan

    Qoosaskeeni rogay

     

    Waxay diintu qabin

    Qaadirkeen na farin

    Qool Rasuul ahayn

    Naftood quusatiyo

    Qarax haku dhiman

     

    Bulshoy qoriga qaad

    Qabiil quutayaal

    Qoorta ha u lulin

    Qeerkaa ku dayo

    Qarannimo u dirir

    Nabadana quwee

    Calakana qadari

     

    Waxay diintu qabin

    Qaadirkeen na farin

    Qool Rasuul ahayn

    Naftood quusatiyo

    Qarax haku dhiman

     

    Qaaradaada eeg

    Bal duul quusatoyoo

    Qarannimo ka tagay

    Dalkoodi qaribay

    Ubadkood qayiray

    Qabiil iyo waxaan

    Qaab aan lahayn

    Isu qoomayaan

    Oo qudhaa ahayn

    Taariikhuhu ma qorin

     

    Waxay diintu qabin

    Qaadirkeen na farin

    Qool Rasuul ahayn

    Naftood quusatiyo

    Qarax haku dhiman

     

    p.s

    Maaddey, oo hada ma waxaad diidantahay, bayaankaan iney soo saareen Culima Garoowe jooga? :D

  17. Posted

    ^^

    I see you've sadly chosen to hide the true identity of this condemnation which was issued by Puntland's Culima in Garoowe. Thus, I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of posting the actual source...

     

     

    Garoowe:Culimada Puntland oo canbaareeyey qaraxyadii shalay.

     

    Garoowe:(Allpuntland)-Culimada ugu caansan deegaanada Puntland ayaa canbaareyn & dhaliilidba isugudaray qaraxyadii shalay duhurkii gilgilay masjid weyn oo kuyaala suuqa bakaaraha ee magaalada muqdisho,waxayna culimada Puntland falkaas ku tilmaamay mid si xun loo abaabulay islamarkaasna diinta wax loogu dhimayo.

     

    Culimadan oo warqoraala kasoo saaray magaalada Garoowe ee caasimada dawlada Puntland ayaa qoraalkoooda ku sheegey in falkaasi ay ka danabaysay maskax aan sifiican u fikirin,isla markaasna uu ahaa falkaasi mid ka fog diinta,dadnimada & Wadaniyada Ummada soomaaliyeed oo in mudo ah qiilqiil ku jirtay.

     

    "Culimada Puntland waxay muujinayaan sida ay uga xunyihiin qaraxyadii shalay ka dhacay masjidka kuyaala Suuqa Bakaaraha,waxaanuna sheegaynaa in falkaasi uu ahaa mid wax loogu dhimayo Diinta islaamka,Shacabka Puntland-na waxay kawada simanyihiin eedaynta Xasuuqa & Gumaadka noocan oo kale ah"Ayaa lagu yiri Bayaanka culimada Puntland.

     

    Midkamid ah culimada bayaankan soo saaray oo APL u waramay ayaa sheegaya in falkaasi uu yahay mid aysan ogolayn maskaxda saliimka ah,wuxuuse meesha kasaaray in falkaasi ay ka danbayn karaan dad diinta islaamka ku abtirsada,waxaana uu intaas ku daray in dadka soomaaliyeed xaaladoodu imika ay marayso meel khatar ah.

     

    Culimada Bayaankan soo saaraya yaa ka koobnaa 22-Xubnood,waxayna kamidyihiin culimada magaca & Maamuuskaba ku leh deegaanada Puntland,waxayna kala ahaayeen sidan:-

    1. Sh. C/qaadir Nuur Faarax

    2. Dr.Axmed Xaaji C/raxmaan

    3. Sh.Daahir Aw Cabdi

    4. Sh.C/naasir Xaaji Axmed

    5. Sh.Xassan Xuseen Axmed

    6. Sh.Axmed Daahir Xassan

    7. Sh.C/waaxid Xaashi Xassan

    8. Sh.Maxamed Macallin Axmed

    9. Sh.C/qaadir Siciid Cali

    10. Sh.Xassan Maxamed Ibraahim

    11. Sh.Maxamuud Xaaji Yuusuf

    12. Sh.Axmed Siciid Maxamed (Farax)

    13. Sh.Aadan Maxamed Cigaal

    14. Sh.C/rashiid Sh.Saalax

    15. Sh.C/nuur Xirsi

    16. Sh.Mahad C/laahi Maxamed

    17. Sh.Axmed Faarax Garaase

    18. Sh.Maxamed Axmed Faarax

    19. Sh.Faarax Maxamed Cajab

    20. Sh.Axmed Yusuf Daad

    21. Sh.C/raxmaan Aw Ciise

    22. Sh.Axmed C/samad

     

    Cabdiqani Xayir

    Allpuntland

     

    Maaddeey: horta adigu markay culimada Puntland cambaareeyaan falkii masaajidka ka dhacay, waad u riyaaqday oo waad ku raacsantahay; hadana waxaa qoraaladaada kale ka muuqqda naceyb aad Puntland u qabtid. Waa inaad ogaataa, reer Puntland iney yihiin dad Muslin ah, diinta ku dhaqma, Soomalinimada iyo midnimada ummada Soomaliyeed ka hor mariya wax kasta. Marka aan qoraalkaagi shalay aan dib ugu soo laabto ee ahaa Xarardheere oo aad tiri, Al Shabaab baa qabsaday, aadna jecleysatay iney Puntland ey dagaal geliyaan, maxaad ula jeedaa, haday arintaadu ahayn qabilkii oo loo cimaamaday?

     

    Anigu waxaan kuu sheegayaa, ummada Soomaaliyeed, meel kasto ey joogto, waxay u baahantahay samaan iyo nabadgalyo--taasna waxay ku imaan kartaa, is-fahan ka dhasho dhexdooda; ee uma baahna in tekniko loo qaato ummad nabad ku nool, oo ey wax dhibaata ah oo ey wadaan eysan jirrin. Lana soco, awooda aad sheegaysid, oo aad leedahay Puntland ayaa lagu qabanayaa, mid ka weyn ayee leeyihiin oo waa dad is dhifaaci kara--yaqaanana waxay u dhimanayaan.

     

    Anigoo hadalkii soo koobaya: Xal ma aha, qori iyo qarax iyo qac iyo quc in nabad lagu gaarayo. Nabadu waxay ku timaadaa, is-fahan iyo is-afgarad dhexmara bulshada dhexdeeda. Hada ka hor baa Sayid Maxamed waxaa laga hayaa inuu yiri,"Rag wuxuu walaalow aan is dayno uu ku dhaamo majiro". Marka Maaddeeyo, is-waalka iyo wareerka aad wadaan meel ku gaari maysaanee, caga dhigta! Soomaliduna waxay ku maahmaahdaa, "Ninkii soo joog laga waayaa, soo jiifsaa laga helaa". Maahmaah kalena waxay leedahay,"Nin aan kibir dilin, maroodi ma dilo".

     

    Marka intaasoo xikmad soomaaliyeed ah, Alle haku solansiiyo... :D

  18. Posted

    Calaacal.com iga dheh! Usheega Shangole suunka ha dhuuqsado... Inuu maalin walba dad masaakin ah uu dilkooda uu ka shaqeeyo ayuu rabaa, asagana wax shida ah ayna soo gaarin-- Taasna ma soconayso.

     

    Ruuxi fitna ka shaqeeyah ama xumaato ka shaqeeya, fitnadaas uu ka shaqeeyey ayuu ku dhimandoonaa. Nin walibana wuxuu keedsaday ayuu leeyahay.

     

    Shangoole kaliya arintaan kuma ekaanayso, ee nin waliba oo iyaga ka mid ah, dhibaatadu wey soo foodsaari doontaa, Ilaahay idinkiis.

  21. Posted

    May all the terrorists and religious deviants who were killed ALL burn in hell, and may those who are got injured die a quick painful death! Ameen...

     

    p.s

    I urge you all to stop referring to those temples of religious deviancy and terrorism as Mosques. They have never been and never will be Baitullahs.

  23. Posted

    ^

    Dude, Bakara market is full of terrorists and has always been an Al Shabab stronghold. So, I say screw these so-called "innocent" people in the Bakara market, you speak of. These are the same "innocent" people who get bribed to let their sons get brainwashed by Al Shabab for a petty $100 a month. I say kill 'em ALL.

     

    And when I referred to Al Shabab's meeting places as a mosque, I obviously misspoke. Because their khawaarij gathering places should never be called a mosque... they should be called instead, temples of religious deviancy and terrorism.

  24. Posted

    Originally posted by Nassir:

    quote:
    Originally posted by Maaddeey:

    Mr.Somalia, Isbaarada Puntland hadaad sidan u difaacanaysid Meiji tiisa maxaad ka rabtaa?
    :D

    Lol@Maadeey, meel walba waxaad u heysataa sida Xamar oo kale. PL is a "refuge from anarchy"..

     

     

    For the first time, the city’s tradition of tolerance was noticed by the Western press, dominating the headlines of many prominent newspapers. Canada’s national newspaper, the Globe and Mail (May 17, 1996) reads its International News: “Somali city a refuge from anarchy”. The newspaper elaborated well why Bossaaso became the ultimate “final destiny” for many people:Left to fend for itself, Bosasso has become a refuge from anarchy. Even those from other clans other than *****, who have long dominated the northeast, say they are welcomed. “These people if you tell them you are hungry, they give something,” said Abdalla Essa, a wrinkled old man who came from Mogadishu six months in a shanty town along the garbage-strewn shore of the shimmering blue Gulf of Aden. Gabriel Ali, 37, a builder who lost eight relatives in the war, braved highway bandits to move to his family from the capital. “In Mogadishu, if you work and get some money they take it by force or kill you. But here, I can keep what I earn,” he said. Now he earns about $100 a month.

     

    -Robdon Forum

    Nassir:

     

    Puntland has become a sanctuary for millions of Somalis escaping the brigandage, lawlessness and over-all anarchy propagated by the desolation and slaughter of the South by Meiji's Isbaaro Inc and Maaddeey's Religious deviants.

     

    And as they say, "the proof is in the pudding". Anyone who doubts this, can visit Puntland and see with their own eyes; the peace, the stability and the success enjoyed by millions of internally displaced Somalis from the south, who have come to make new lives, for themselves and their families.

     

    Thus, I wouldn't waste precious brain waves worrying about Meiji and Maaddeey's obvious ill wishes(READ: silly Hateration) towards Puntland! I say, let them keep on bleating like the petty sheep they are; and Puntland will keep forever marching forward, for the betterment of all its' peoples... :D

  25. Posted

    Originally posted by Meiji:

     

    Mr.Somalia and all other Yusufites are still bitter because of the failed ambition of their uncle.

     

    You are lucky Guriceel-Dhusomareeb is holding off the Alshabab otherwise they would have marched to Garowe-Bosaso with ease.
    :D

     

    --

     

    As for Mogadishu, for better or worse that city and its society that was plagued by warlordism and opportunism produced the movement of Alshabab. So, you can hate it or love it, but all will come under Mogadishu whether an Islamic State or a Nationalist state is created in Somalia.

    Meiji:

     

     

    Leave it to Meiji's, drivel prone mouth, to not keep the sordid details of the abject moryaanimo of M-Society, secret. So, you admit that, Isbaaro weyn, Dhuusamareeb inaad udhigateen Al Shabab?( Ha ha ha... :D )

     

    I wish to God, I was on the same medications you are on - then maybe I could have agreed with you. So Keep hallucinating moon-calf. :D

     

    :D *still laughing* :D @ "You are lucky Guriceel-Dhusomareeb is holding off the Alshabab otherwise they would have marched to Garowe-Bosaso with ease"