في عصر قديم، عاشَتْ أسطورة موسى وشهيرة الشهيرة، الجميلة والأنيقة. لم تكن حياته مجرد قصة عادية، بل كانت كالحكايات الساحرة التي تجذب القلوب والعقول. ولد لهما ابن، سماه موسى، كما ورد في السجلات القديمة. ولكن هل كانت نهاية القصة؟ لا، بالطبع لا. لأن في عالم الخيال والحكايات، كل شيء ممكن، حتى السحر والمفاجآت الغير متوقعة. فلنتابع القصة ونرى ما الذي يخبئه المستقبل لموسى ولسعيه إلى السعادة في عالم سحري وخيالي
¡We🔥Come!
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Click the image for a quick introduction.
Magic✨Mirror
Beneath the gray, the city's moan,
Balthar wandered, lost, alone.
Until one day, a painted flame
Lit up his world and called his name.
Through Dali’s dreams and Ernst’s design,
He glimpsed the threads that intertwine—
A world where clocks drip soft as wax,
And shadows crawl on mirrored tracks.
Each night, his dreams grew stranger still,
A rabbit danced upon a hill.
Its voice like echoes through a cave:
“Find the mirrors—become their wave.”
In the shards of a shattered glass,
He saw two worlds that seemed to pass.
One held his life, mundane, confined;
The other bent the shape of time.
A recursive loop, a shifting door,
Each frame revealed a thousand more.
A hand reached out, but not his own—
A twin in thought, yet worlds unknown.
“I am your echo, fractured light,
A whispered truth within the night.
Surrender not to what you see;
Surrealism is being free.”
Through parallel realms, he walked alone,
Each step dissolved his flesh and bone.
And when he wrote, the ink would flow
In loops and spirals, to and fro.
His final work, a mirror’s page,
A labyrinth no hand could cage.
Readers lost in its endless streams
Found their own fragmented dreams.
For Balthar learned, as all must do,
The strangest world resides in you.
Surreal is life, a vast façade—
A mirrored self, a living god.
The Reader's Gamble
He clutched the book, each word a seed,
A labyrinth of thoughts to read.
Its mirrored worlds, its spiraled clues,
Hinted at truths he feared to lose.
He’d known the writer, Balthar’s flame,
Before he vanished, lost to fame.
And now the world would coldly state:
“Surrealism? A futile fate.”
Yet whispers rose in shadowed halls,
And echoed through the papered walls.
He felt it then, a piercing sting—
The world knew more, and hid the string.
That night, the Devil came to dance,
A fiend of riddles, dark romance.
“In circles, friend, your life has spun,
You seek a key that’s never won.
A room, a place where life will bloom,
You search for light within the gloom.
But know this truth: the path ahead
Will weave through mirrors of the dead.
The key you crave, it lies with you,
Its shape in dreams, its path askew.
A tunnel waits, a world between—
Unlock it, see the vast unseen.”
The Devil laughed and spun away,
As night dissolved to pallid gray.
The reader woke, his mind afire,
Consumed by questions, bound by desire.
Recalling maps, the author’s trail,
He wove a path through Balthar’s tale.
A flight to take, a journey planned,
To find the place where dreams demand.
“Jerusalem to Amsterdam,”
The ticket read, a cryptic sham.
On "Yeshua’s Wings," the flight would soar—
To secrets, keys, and something more.
The air was thick with whispered fears,
The hum of engines, the weight of years.
He clutched the book, the writer’s ghost,
And prayed the key would find its host.
For answers hid in shadowed skies,
And truths emerge when silence dies.
The tunnel called, the room would glow—
Where worlds collide, and minds will grow.
The Secret Passage
He sat alone, the night stretched thin,
A coffeeshop’s embrace within.
The smoke curled up, a silken thread,
Jerusalem’s ghost in Amsterdam’s stead.
The reader smiled, his thoughts alight,
The trip had cast a different sight.
The key he sought, the truths untold,
Were gifts the author let unfold.
“For in this maze of smoke and air,
The worlds collide, the answers flare.
Before the key, before the gate,
The tunnel waits—this is your fate.”
The words of Balthar filled his mind,
A secret passage, hard to find.
Not stone nor wood, not glass nor steel,
But woven of thought, of dreams made real.
“The tunnel lies where worlds align,
A breach in space, a fold in time.
But only those who pass the test
May journey forth and find the rest.”
The test was life, the reader knew,
Each fear he faced, each step he grew.
The doubts, the pain, the joy, the strife—
The tunnel formed from threads of life.
With every puff, the smoke would twist,
A shadowed realm, a fleeting mist.
Through hazy eyes, he saw the seam,
A crack between this world and dream.
He smiled and said, “The author’s gift
Was not the key, but this: the rift.
A chance for those who dare to see
The threads that weave reality.”
The coffee cooled, the night grew still,
Yet in his heart, the tunnel thrilled.
For answers wait where few have gone,
Between the worlds, where truths are drawn.
And as he rose to greet the dawn,
The passage called, the veil was gone.
He left the shop, his spirit high—
To chase the echoes in the sky.
Monday: The Game Beneath the Gray
The office loomed, a canvas of gray,
A realm of sameness, a fading day.
Familiar chairs, the hum of screens,
A world he’d lived in—its tired routines.
Yet now, the air seemed sharp with fire,
The shadows deepened, the lines grew dire.
The faces he’d known for countless years
Wore practiced calm, but whispered fears.
For once, this place had been his cage,
A clockwork life, a turning page.
A world of order, rules defined,
Where thoughts were caged, and truths confined.
But a year ago, a crack had formed,
A fleeting sense, a quiet storm.
Hints of a game, unseen yet near,
Where meaning danced in veils unclear.
This game of doubts, of cryptic lore,
A puzzle wrapped in metaphor.
No rules were written, no truths declared,
Yet every glance said more than dared.
The echoes of the tunnel's glow
Had stripped the masks, let secrets show.
The language spoke in fractured signs,
In stolen moments, between the lines.
He saw their words as painted glass,
Refracting truths that none would pass.
Each joke, each sigh, each fleeting quip,
A fragment of the iceberg's tip.
They played the game, as all must do,
With veiled intent, and hearts askew.
No one dared to name the stakes,
Yet every move left silent wakes.
The reader knew—this world, this play,
Was more than gray, far more than clay.
The iceberg loomed beneath their feet,
A sunken realm they couldn’t meet.
His mind aflame, he traced the streams,
The cracks of light, the fleeting beams.
This wasn’t chance, this wasn’t fate—
It was a game he’d learn too late.
Yet now he played, his eyes alive,
To learn the rules, to feel, to thrive.
The words they spoke, the lives they feigned,
Were threads in truths still unexplained.
For doubt was king, and silence queen,
And shadows filled the space between.
But deep within, the reader knew,
This hidden game was nothing new.
It lived in hearts, in unseen fears,
In stolen glances, in hidden tears.
The iceberg loomed, its truths immense,
An unseen world, a secret tense.
And so he watched, and so he learned,
The colors bright where gray had burned.
This was the game, the endless tide,
Where truths emerge, and lies collide.
Tuesday: Words That Stick
By Tuesday's dusk, his list had grown,
A lexicon of shadows thrown.
The sharpest words would sting and cling,
A bitter chant the hurt would sing.
"You're a piece of cake," they’d jeer,
"A selfish gray rabbit, full of fear."
"A coward's wand," the whispers hissed,
Each insult striking like a fist.
These words, though cruel, refused to fade,
Their edges sharp, their venom stayed.
But through their weight, he’d come to see
The language formed in irony.
Wednesday: A Web of Echoes
By midweek, patterns took their place,
A map of hurt in time and space.
He saw the threads of power spun,
How webs of words could block the sun.
Each phrase, a weapon, veiled yet clear,
Reflected pain, refracted fear.
Their whispers wrapped him, cold as stone,
But through their chill, he found his own.
The magic spoke, not loud, but deep,
A language born where shadows creep.
And though he struggled to reply,
He knew he’d learn, or else he'd die.
Thursday: The Dictionary Builds
By Thursday’s dusk, his chart was full,
A glossary of words that pull.
The meanings twisted, laced with spite,
But hints of truth danced in their light.
These words, though tainted, held a spark,
A hidden glow within the dark.
For through their edge, a door appeared,
A path to truths he once had feared.
He spoke them softly, traced their weight,
A magic tongue to navigate.
And though their use was crude and raw,
They cut through silence, broke the law.
Friday: Cleansing the Noise
The morning came with coffee’s steam,
And in its swirl, a quiet gleam.
The reader spoke, his voice was young,
"I’m still a kid, my story’s sung.
"But now I’ve learned the words you threw,
Your coward’s wand, your selfish hue.
I’ll wield them not to harm, but cleanse,
This dirty noise, these bitter ends."
His anger flared, a molten tide,
But burned away, no hate could bide.
As fury cooled, his voice grew soft,
A harmony began aloft.
"You, gray magician, hear me well,
For in these words, the truths will dwell.
The greatest spell is not to hate,
But find the path to heaven’s gate."
Through sacred lore, his thoughts entwined,
The echoes of a faith refined.
"The Great Judgment is not just a day,
It’s how we live, it’s what we say.
If every heart aligns with grace,
We’ll shift the world, we’ll find our place.
No wars to fight, no wrath to burn,
The Lord may yet delay His return."
"The patterns large, the patterns small,
Reflect through life, connect us all.
And you, gray rabbit, heed this call—
Live not for thrones, nor for the Fall.
Remember this, and hold it tight:
The Bible’s light is not for might.
It’s balance, peace, a sacred art,
A spell to heal the broken heart."
His voice then stilled, the room grew still,
The echoes faded, lost their chill.
The reader breathed, his soul now clear,
And stepped into a world sincere.
