Now he was on his way to Ashkelon, lined with apple orchards, fig orchards, and apricot orchards. In the shadow of the garden, the dry corpses of men camped by the fountain, frowning, empty eyes, and old robes, were shouting that we were Muslims. We are muslims. As soon as he got off his donkey, the obsessive-compulsives put away comfortably, stood up, crossed his chest, and left the whole garden in one breath. He sat by the fountain next to his donkey, chewing sweet dates and drinking salty tears.
He passed near Ashkelon, where houses were rotting, walls were smashed, doors were closed at the fair and during the day, and the streets were empty and filthy. Like the epidemic here. Then I saw the forehead of a long and wide earth building with an open door.
“Islamic Medical College”
He tied the donkey’s reins to the doorknob and went in. The slaves stood in a circle, wiped the sweat from their faces, searched for water sources everywhere, and entered the spacious room where the light of life shone. Countless columns support the high ceilings of this spacious room. The inscriptions of the Quranic verses are indistinct on the inner arches on all four sides. The roof paint is gone. There are old cushions on the floor and on the frescoes. Elderly people, children and small children sit on it and read French books and writing pads. A priest sitting in a high chair in front of him is looking at a plaque with a boy standing on his arm, as if a court of oppression were looking at the culprit’s crimes. Behind the chair, an executioner-like soldier is watching the man sitting in front of him searching for camel hair, as if touching the buttocks of a butcher standing on the neck of an animal.
As soon as the pastor raised his head and let him sit out in a chair, he officially opened his mouth. He was in the mihrab as if the whip was raining down on his back. The wolf was hunted. Leaving the cemetery of small houses scattered like graves, he came to other parts of Ashkelon, with clean towering houses of white and brown stone, beautiful mosaic gates, light patterns and symmetry. Pale-limbed slave. Muslims sweep the streets and sprinkle water with musk. They pass by as donkeys and saddles, and as crosses on their breasts. Crowds of Muslims sit in baskets full of palm leaves at the bazaar, waiting for the voice of heaven to pay their salaries. Women in floral robes and burlap robes sit behind piles of grass and fuel, baskets of cheap dried fruit, begging customers with dark eyes.
Near the gold and silver shop stood a Muslim man, holding the reins of a donkey, and sitting on it was a woman in a black cotton robe, covering half of his face. Two or three young Christians dragged him around laughing. Everyone is busy with their work. He went on to tell a man that he wanted to sell his donkey. He left a donkey in the street and chased the donkey that was playing with countless people, soaked with sweat and donkey dung. He hung four dinars (white) on his donkey and came to the wide alley of Ajla Bazaar. Now he was hungry, and after asking someone for his address, he walked into another street. There was a long and wide field on the corner of the street. All around are corridors, corridors, rooms, rooms, the stones are painted in different colors and decorated with silk robes, shiny sheets and precious weapons and leather socks, full of healthy and beautiful human beings. The fields have platforms large and small with pens, chairs and rugs carved on them. Crowds of Christians were busy coming from Nargili, Jam was Landhar, and the queens were laughing. Then the sun sets on a platform. A young girl stood on Mahin Harir’s burqa, accusing him of covering up seventy people. Her eyes were fixed on her toes, her pale face flushed with groans, and there were dry tears in her eyes. The rope around his waist was in the hands of an agent who was driving naked.
Baghdad in Haroon Al-Rashid is the sun. ”
Abdul Malik is the moon of Damascus.
Gentlemen, this is what the Soso Guards used to guard.
Gentlemen, this is the liver of Emir Muminin of Cairo.
Its owner is worth five dinars… five dinars.
A maiden of five dinars. The owner has only five dinars.
“Five dinars is worth a samurai who becomes useless in two years.
Gentlemen, trade this silk cloak for 5 dinars and enjoy 20 years like Haroon Al-Rasheed. No, enjoy your life. “
A middle-aged Christian, gritted his dirty yellow teeth, looked at him. He lost his appetite, ran, and piled on the red tripod that had been left in the church hall. Then there are the servants of the church. After greeting him with words, he sat in an armchair with a fully equipped bed, which consisted of a fully equipped bed, two chairs, a tripod, a sconce, a candelabra, a fireplace and a book. Bible. He fell on it like a cut palm. (continue)