The Death Of Modesty Poem by Yousif Ibrahim Abubaker Abdalla

Once, the rivers of conversation flowed over games, politics, and ordinary storms of life.
Now, the mountains of truth
stand accused,
and forgotten foundations
are forced to defend themselves.
Every glowing window of the digital world scatters seeds into the soil where the flower of modesty fades, and crowns of applause are purchased with pieces of dignity.
The voices of the age
call it freedom.
But freedom is not a sword
to cut down the garden of virtue, nor a stage
where innocence is placed beneath the lights.
Little eyes become silent mirrors.
Young hearts
become empty pages, waiting for the ink of every image they encounter.
A civilization does not vanish
like a candle in a storm; it breaks slowly, like ancient walls, one accepted crack, one forgotten value, one repeated silence at a time.
The roots of a people
must not surrender to every passing wind.
They must reach deeper
into the soil of faith, drink from the rivers of truth, and stand beneath the gaze of the Eternal.
For the loudest thunder
is not always the voice of victory.
Sometimes, it is only the final echo of a conscience
closing its eyes.