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!
⁎⁎⁎ ⁎⁎⁎ X ⁎⁎⁎ ⁎⁎⁎
*** *** Y *** ***
Click the image for a quick introduction.
ВВЕДЕНИЕ
Où suis-je ? Sur mes ongles, des petits cœurs battent doucement. À mon épaule, une sacoche du Petit Prince, mais pas n’importe quelle sacoche. Le secret est à l’intérieur. La doublure a été confectionnée par ma grand-mère, avec une habileté inégalée. Plus qu'une simple couturière, elle était une dompteuse, une magicienne face à l'Aiguille enragée. Elle appuyait sur la pédale, et comme une ballerine capricieuse, l’Aiguille dansait, laissant derrière elle une trace verte, un sillon de fil sur le tissu. Cette danse mécanique, orchestrée avec précision, portait en elle l'héritage de générations.
Où suis-je ? Sur mes ongles, toujours ces petits cœurs. La sacoche du Petit Prince repose sur mon épaule. Mais au-dessus de moi, un avion fend les nuages. Pas un simple avion, non. Un véritable maison volante. Un spectacle qui n'existe ni à Paris, ni à Nice. Et pourtant, ces maisons flottantes existent bel et bien. Chaque inspecteur de l’ONU peut vous le confirmer. Tout y est. La cuisine, le salon, même une ancre pour se poser en douceur. Une maison comme une autre, simplement... dans le ciel.
Où suis-je ? Toujours ces petits cœurs sur mes ongles, et la sacoche du Petit Prince, fidèle à mon côté. De cet avion-maison descend un sorcier, mystérieux, puissant. Mais ce n'est pas lui le vrai magicien ici. Le véritable miracle commence bien plus bas, là où ma grand-mère, un jour, appuya sur cette pédale magique, où l'Aiguille enragée prit vie.
Un geste si simple, et pourtant, c’est là que le monde a changé. Cette aiguille, mince et apparemment fragile, porte en elle des siècles de génie humain. L'électricité, cet éclair d’inspiration qui a donné naissance à tant d'innovations. Comment aurait-on pu imaginer qu'un simple frottement, entre deux fils de cuivre, produirait cette force invisible qui alimente nos vies ? De la première étincelle aux réseaux électriques complexes, ce voyage fut court mais révolutionnaire.
Ensuite, les mécanismes. L'idée même de créer des machines capables de démultiplier notre force. Du levier à l'engrenage, l'humanité a appris à dompter la matière. Le génie mécanique a façonné des empires, permis aux hommes de construire des cathédrales et des ponts qui défient le ciel.
Mais avant tout cela, il y avait le besoin simple et fondamental de couvrir nos corps, de nous protéger du froid. Les premières civilisations, armées de simples aiguilles de bois ou d’os, se sont battues contre les éléments. L'art de coudre est né, bien avant les grandes inventions modernes. Des mains humaines, armées de fil et d'aiguille, ont tissé l'histoire, vêtement par vêtement, civilisation par civilisation.
Aujourd’hui, cette même Aiguille enragée continue de vibrer sous mes doigts. Mais chaque point qu’elle trace sur le tissu est bien plus qu’un simple fil : c’est une ligne directe vers l'héritage de notre monde, une concentration de tout ce que nous avons accompli, à travers l'électricité, les mécanismes, et l'art du fil.
A young boy with eyes full of gleam,
Read through a manual, like a dream.
The engineer, wise, with hands so deft,
Left a gift of wisdom, in the text bereft.
His hands took hold of magic's thread,
Not just of needles, but what lay ahead.
The pulse of life—electric spark,
The hum of gears within the dark.
The needle knew not what it wove,
Of mankind's legacy or engine's grove.
It simply stitched with a thread of green,
On fabric soft, with a quiet sheen.
Each stitch a step towards grander things,
Towards snowy halls where knowledge rings.
The lining glowed, with subtle art,
A cloak of wisdom for the boy's start.
For as he sewed, the magic grew,
Electric veins in patterns new.
This humble thread, by chance aligned,
Would carry him to a world designed.
🚀🚀🚀
Professors, with chalk in hand,
Wrote formulas in lines so grand.
But not just numbers filled the air—
They spoke of life with wisdom rare.
They mused on threads of old and new,
Comparing tech in grander view.
“The sewing machine,” they’d gently say,
“Follows commands in its simple way.”
It hums and whirs, its gears align,
Yet lacks a mind, a thought, a sign.
No memory stored, no code to read,
Just hands that guide its rhythmic speed.
But computers, ah, they leap beyond,
With memory vast and circuits fond.
They store commands, they think, decide,
And shape the world with minds inside.
Professors spoke with flair and might,
Of how machines took flight from light.
Once, they mused, black-clad men decreed,
"Copying machines, a forbidden seed."
Ah, the irony that followed swift,
Books were cheaper than vodka’s lift.
And magic ministers, so in dismay,
Feared technology’s rising sway.
Professors went on, their tales entwined,
Of thinking machines, their future kind.
Again, those men in black did cry,
"No smart machines beneath the sky!"
🚀🚀🚀
But the simple art of copying grew,
And soon, the boy with wisdom new,
Read a guide to a space-bound home,
Set for the Moon, where dreams do roam.
The starship stacked with houses small,
Launched from thrall of cosmic call.
A twist of fate, or so it's spun,
The orbit's named for Elon Musk's son.
The boy arrived at Earth’s parked ring,
Where ships like birds in the void did cling.
A cosmic dock, where gravity spun,
And ships took rest from their lunar run.
With feet on steel and steps so sure,
He wandered toward a glowing door.
The bar was buzzing with voices wide,
Where travelers rested, side by side.
His keen sense led him to a man,
A trader with schemes and a crafty plan.
“I’ve got a booster,” the trader said,
“From ancient stock, but caution’s bred.”
“The accuracy’s rough, it may misfire,
And if it does, you’ll need to hire
Another boost, a guiding hand—
But it’ll cost you, understand?”
The boy, with a grin, replied in jest,
“On Earth’s orbit, no need for the best!
We’re both stuck here, circling round,
And yet you drive such prices down?”
The trader laughed, with eyes agleam,
“A fair price for a lunar dream!
If you want the Moon, don’t hesitate,
But don’t expect a lower rate.”
They haggled hard, like cosmic peers,
Their banter echoing in the gears.
“For someone orbiting the same old Earth,
You’d think you’d know what it’s worth!”
The trader grinned, his hands out wide,
“An orbit’s small, but my price is pride.
You want the boost, you pay the cost,
Or find your way, and maybe get lost.”
The boy sighed, but shook his head,
A deal was struck, no more words said.
Coins exchanged, the booster bought,
A future leap in space now sought.
He wandered back to his tiny ship,
Paid the fee for the docking slip.
With engines warmed and thrusters bright,
He left the dock, like a boat in flight.
A gentle push from the station's hull,
Like drifting from a shore so dull.
The stars ahead, the Earth behind,
A steady course, his path aligned.
With distance gained, a stretch so wide,
It was time to set the Moon as guide.
The booster hummed, the engines roared,
And off his little ship now soared.
The boost engaged, but something skewed,
A shift in course, not what he’d viewed.
The smart house clicked, calculations made,
Predicted paths now clearly laid.
“You’ll pass the fleet, but close by still,
Just thirty kilometers, enough for a thrill.”
Though thirty seemed a distant range,
In space, such odds are known as strange.
For royal ships, the rules are clear:
A hundred kilometers, you must steer.
Close to the Queen’s majestic ride,
Is risky business—better to glide wide.
🚀🚀🚀
Victoria One loomed close and grand,
The captain smiled, a firm command.
With signals swift, the path was planned,
Fuel conserved till the break of dawn.
The royal stormtrooper fleet took lead,
And like a hawk, with royal speed,
They aimed to nudge the boy’s small glide,
Towards the Moon’s awaiting tide.
But first, the stormtrooper would make precise,
Small boosts and moves, twice or thrice.
For in the vastness of outer space,
Time moves slow in its endless race.
No rush, no need to constantly steer,
In zero-G, one thing is clear:
You sip your tea, with royal grace,
While letting auto-pilot set the pace.
And yet, every sailor knows,
That space, like sea, its tempers shows.
Superstition lingers still,
For every captain fears the chill—
That one day they might need to cry,
"Save our souls," with hope in the sky.
As the royal ship approached in style,
The final slowdown took a while.
But punctual always, without fail,
Her Majesty’s boosters never pale.
And with a gentle, silent lock,
The ship was docked, like stone to rock.
The stormtrooper stepped inside the dome,
The prince’s ship, his humble home.
It was cozy, safe, and neat,
With all one needs for cosmic feat.
A shelf of books, a galley tight,
For meals beneath the starlit night.
A sleeping nook, for when day ends,
And even a space for weightless bends—
A spot for cosmic exercise,
To keep fit beneath the endless skies.
The stormtrooper, with a formal stance,
Introduced himself, no second glance.
“Lieutenant here, of Victoria One,
Her Majesty’s pride, our work’s never done.”
"Forgive the close pass, it’s just our law,
To stay afar, a cosmic flaw.
But thirty clicks was far too tight,
A hundred’s safe, by royal right."
Then with a smile, his tone turned light,
"So, how’s the journey? What’s your flight?"
The boy, now prince, smiled wide and said,
"I’ve traveled far, lands I have tread,
But to the Moon, I’ve never flown,
I go for music, to rest my bones."
The stormtrooper grinned, "A festival, I’ve heard!
‘Treasure Island,’ is the word?"
"And tell me, prince, how do you earn,
For a trip like this, what do you yearn?"
The prince laughed, "I’ve mastered the art,
Of sewing machines that stitch from the heart.
I bring my Singer, to patch and sew,
Spacesuits and gear, where I go."
"For in space, no tear can stand—
I’ll mend your suits with a steady hand."
He pointed to the uniform worn with pride,
"Your stitching’s perfect," the prince replied.
The stormtrooper chuckled, "I’ll keep you in mind,
For any rips of the royal kind."
"Good luck," he said, with a bow so tight,
And turned to leave, in the dimming light.
The ship released with a final wave,
The stormtrooper’s craft, so bold and brave.
With a gentle push, he glided clear,
Waved goodbye through the glass so sheer.
Then engines fired, with grace and might,
He soared away into the night.
The prince’s ship, now light and free,
Continued its course through the cosmic sea.
The Moon ahead, his path aligned,
A cosmic prince with dreams refined.
