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.
The Devil’s Game
In shadowed halls where fate’s at play,
The Devil deals in cards each day.
With laughter deep, he twists the mind,
And pulls the threads that hearts unwind.
A man, with soul both raw and torn,
Had glimpsed the truth, yet still was worn—
The game was rigged, the stakes were high,
No one could hear his silent cry.
Around him stood, with faces bland,
The hollow crowd, who’d never stand—
For what was real, they’d never see,
Blind to the depth, blind to the plea.
Then Devil grinned and in his hand,
A card appeared, of deepest brand.
He tossed it down with gleam and jest,
“The Joker,” he said, “will test your quest.”
The Joker, painted wild with flair,
Had chaos dancing in the air.
The world saw him, and knew the name—
Destruction’s dance, a fleeting flame.
But deeper still, the Joker knew,
A truth that none would dare pursue:
In chaos hid a noble dream,
A sacrifice that none could deem.
For all the wreckage, all the dust,
The Joker sought, with endless trust,
To free the world from bonds unseen,
To tear the veil, to lift the screen.
Yet none would see, none would declare,
The truth within his darkened glare.
For in the game, the Joker’s role
Was hidden, veiled—his heart a goal.
But Devil laughed, with cruel delight,
“Do you now see the secret's light?
The Joker’s truth will stay concealed,
For nobleness is not revealed.”
In the game of cards, you see,
The meaning hides, so none are free.
The Joker’s heart is pure, yet damned,
For all his grace is still unmanned.
No honor shines, no truth is known,
In the silence, he stands alone.
For meaning shifts, and none can hold,
The secret truths that can’t be told.
Чеширский Кот
Alice sous l’arbre, le vent doux murmure,
Alice dans l’herbe rêve en prélude.
Le chat ronronne, ses yeux mi-clos,
Le chat contemple des mondes nouveaux.
Un lapin blanc surgit, horloge en main,
Un lapin qui danse au tempo du destin.
Chaque pièce tourne, parfaite et subtile,
Chaque tic résonne, magie d’un fil.
« Dépêche-toi, Alice ! » crie le lapin pressé,
« Dépêche-toi, le miroir va s’ouvrir, enchanté ! »
Le miroir scintille d’un éclat sans pareil,
Le miroir promet un chemin sans éveil.
Une petite porte se cache en secret,
Une petite clé, mais où est l’objet ?
La grande arche luit sous les étoiles d’argent,
La grande énigme attend ses passants.
Les énigmes se nouent, les mystères s’entrelacent,
Les énigmes dansent, le temps les dépasse.
Alice sourit, tresse ses pensées,
Alice poursuit, le rêve est lancé.
Mais le temps, fugace, toujours disparaît,
Mais le temps révèle ses tours discrets.
Chaque miroir un passage contient,
Chaque silence un secret retient.
The Jester of the Citadel
The citadel stood high, a crown of stone,
A bastion where no seed was sown,
Its towering walls both shield and bind,
A monument to the mortal mind.
But as enemies massed and shadows grew long,
The air grew heavy with battle’s song.
In chambers cold, where fire burned low,
The jester’s voice began to flow.
“Ah, my liege,” he said with a bow,
“What is a kingdom without magic now?
No witches weave, no spells ignite,
Only prayers remain in the dead of night.
But prayers, though holy, lack the flame,
That witches’ cunning once could claim.
If but one sorceress still drew breath,
Would she not laugh in the face of death?”
The Dreams of the Jester
Each night, as the siege dragged on,
The jester dreamed till the break of dawn.
And each new day, his sharp-tongued jest,
Struck the king’s heart with unease and unrest.
“The first of my visions,” he spoke with cheer,
“Was a bow so swift, it inspires fear.
Its arrows burn, they streak through the night,
Each one a spark of crimson light.
Imagine a dozen loosed in a breath,
No knight can shield such fiery death.
But alas, Your Grace, that craft is gone—
The Church has seen the witches undone.”
The courtiers whispered, the king sat still,
For each new jest brought a colder chill.
On the second day, the jester proclaimed,
“A flying knight, in my dreams, was named!
On wings of silk, with feathers of steel,
He rose above the battlefield.
From his vantage high, he cast his wrath,
Clearing the foe from his lofty path.
Would we not need such aid today?
But the Church has burned it all away."
The Tension Rises
With every dawn, the citadel braced,
As fear in every heart was placed.
Yet the jester spun his tales anew,
Each one a vision too real, too true.
“Ah, a house!” he declared on the third morn,
“Not bound to earth, but heaven-born.
Its beams took flight, its roof held fast,
Dropping stones that burned as they passed.
A noble’s keep, a castle that moves,
Outmatching any siegecraft’s grooves.
But where are our witches, to charm the sky?
Gone, my liege, and we wonder why.”
The king, uneasy, began to pace,
Haunted by dreams he could not erase.
The Mirror and the Portal
On the fourth day, the jester revealed,
“A mirror of glass, its power concealed.
It showed me sights from castles near,
Their torches burned, their cries unclear.
Through it, I saw how others fight,
How noble homes fall to the night.
With such a tool, how swift we’d be,
To warn our allies across the sea.
But such mirrors were shattered long ago,
By the Church’s hand and the witch’s woe.”
By the fifth dawn, his voice grew low,
“And then I dreamed of a portal’s glow.
A gateway born of magic’s lore,
To send us forth, or bring us more.
Through it, a farmer sold his grain,
Ere a single seed had kissed the plain.
With gold, he bought an iron steed,
That tilled by day and sated his need.
It worked by night, without a hand,
Turning the soil to fertile land.
And he, by God, stayed warm inside,
As his enchanted plow did stride.
Such wealth, such peace, such dreams untold,
Would witches and priests not forge them bold?
But here we stand, with prayers alone,
While futures bloom where seeds are sown.”
The King’s Unease
By the sixth day, the king was torn,
Between the present and dreams reborn.
The jester bowed, his duty clear,
To whisper futures none could hear.
For though the citadel held its might,
The jester’s visions stole the night.
And in the cracks of the stone-cold keep,
The seeds of doubt began to seep.
