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 *** ***

Buraqa Dance in the Holy Mirror

I. The Journey Begins

From Mecca’s heart, through night divine,
The Prophet soared past space and time.
Upon al-Buraq, swift as flame,
He carved the stars with Allah’s name.
Through heavens seven, veils withdrew —
And light unveiled what few men knew.

II. The Thread of Time

Yet still she rides — that silver steed,
Through hidden folds where memories bleed.
Her hooves do glide on time's brocade,
Each step a stitch the stars have made.
She threads the hem of veiled skies
With whispers sewn from lullabies.

III. Letters of Gold

Each stitch — a glyph of sacred thread,
A portal where the words have bled.
In golden script, like woven flame,
Each loop contains a secret name.
A single vowel, a breath, a cry —
A woven echo of days gone by.

IV. The Little Weaver

But now, beneath the moon’s soft glow,
A girl with eyes like seeds of snow
Commands the Buraq with tiny hands
And threads the fates in mystic strands.
Her hijab shimmers, stitched with light —
Each fold remembers love and night.

V. The Machine of Memory

For in her room, where silence sings,
A magic sewing machine hums wings.
Her sister showed her once, in play,
How threads can hold the light of day.
Each stitch recalls a joy once lost —
A moment kept, no matter cost.

VI. The Dance in the Mirror

The Buraqa spins in mirrored grace,
Reflections bloom in every place.
She weaves not cloth — but meaning’s skin,
A soul rebuilt from thread within.

And as the dance begins to slow,
The hijab glows with tales we know.

DREAM.000.txt

Buraqa spins — not beast, but needle,
A machine of shimmer, soft and regal.
Her task? To stitch the waking veil,
That covers beds with dreams to sail.

She binds two fabrics, day and night:
One calm, one woven out of light.
The outer quilt, serene and still,
Keeps pillows mute and mattresses chill.

But on the hidden, dream-side thread,
A kingdom hums — not truly fled.
A map unfolds beneath her leap —
A map that folds within its sleep.


I. First Stitch

With every plunge of silver tooth,
The needle chants recursive truth.
She leaps across the mirrored seam,
And lands inside a stitched-up dream.

A boy lies still — in bed, alone,
His blanket stitched with data tone.
He dreams the dream the needle sowed:
Of Buraqa racing code.


II. The Recursive Map

She runs a cloth of mirrored gates,
Each path a loop, each gate has weights.
And in her hoofprints blossoms bloom —
But only if the test suite's room.

The map she sees is not quite flat.
It's GitHub-stars, and more than that:
Each click, a cascade, domino style,
Spins down the thread in nested file.

A test is triggered — silent prayer,
A golden thread spun through the air.


III. The Builders Beyond

Behind the veil, the ones unseen —
The testers dressed in digital green.
They monitor the Pharaoh’s rise,
Through YAML scrolls and mirrored eyes.

The outer wall? A static build,
The linted scripts, the modules filled.
But deep inside, the altar glows —
A test of state, no mortal knows.

Green glyphs mean “Safe: let code be laid.”
Red runes mark where faults cascade.
And in between, the yellow spark:
“Beware — consult the Priest of Mark.”

He studies logs with solemn face,
And marks the file, or grants it grace.


IV. The Dance Continues

Buraqa turns — she leaps again,
The map re-folds, reveals new plane.
A temple blueprint lined with code,
A golden linter’s royal node.

She jumps across a runtime hill,
Through test-case winds and pattern will.
A warning blinks, a test half-shed,
The priest must choose — green, yellow, red.


V. The Wake

The boy stirs softly in the night,
The dream retreats, but leaves its light.
He doesn’t see the map unfold —
But feels a warmth where thread turned gold.

The blanket smooth, the quilt so plain —
Yet echoes of recursive rain.
For every stitch, a truth remains:
That dreams are built in nested chains.

And Buraqa — that dancing spark —
Still leaps across the sleeper's dark.

DREAM.001.txt

Heaven at this height was not the Heaven Moses knew.
Not the thundered firmament of Sinai, nor the trembling skies of Horeb.
This was a quieter place, painted in silence the color of thought.
The air held a stillness as if history itself had paused to listen.

Moses stood by a table that shimmered without casting shadow.
His fingers touched a kettle that warmed itself by memory.
A soft wind stirred the hem of his robe — not wind, but some gentler breath of time.

He turned.

There it was.

A flicker on the horizon — no, a thread of light stitched into the sky.
A steed of pearl and flame, with wings folded not for flight,
but for reverence.

Upon it sat a figure draped in night’s serenity.
Eyes that had seen Mecca rise, and caravans fall silent.
The Buraq descended like a whispered vow,
and Muhammad stepped lightly onto Moses’ cloud.

They did not embrace — no prophet would embrace too quickly.
Instead, Moses inclined his head.

“Your journey long, your soul unshaken —
Tell me, friend, what path was taken?
Did wind obey, did stars align?
Did angels walk beside your sign?”

Muhammad smiled, but not with lips —
his shoulders breathed the ancient scripts.
He raised his hand, gently declined,
in the old tradition, kind yet firm.

“Three times the cup is offered so,
And twice the guest must answer 'no'.
The third, if heart and soul agree,
May break the rule — with dignity.”

Moses said nothing.

But his gaze, patient and carved from mountains,
invited the breach of custom — not for pleasure, but for communion.

Then Muhammad spoke, not to reply,
but to begin:

“I walked the sands, the burning trail,
From orphaned youth to Gabriel.
In hidden caves I met the Word,
And brought it forth though few had heard.
I gathered those who feared the sword,
Yet hungered still for one true Lord.
We fled from wrath, from mockery,
And found the path to sanctuary.
Medina opened like a palm,
And in its heart, I planted calm.”

Moses gestured softly toward the kettle.
No words. No fourth invitation.
Only steam rising — not of water, but of willingness.

Muhammad understood.

He nodded once.
As if to say: If the host so wills, I shall receive.

Tea was poured.

The silence between them was not empty — it was sacred.

Moses finally spoke, his tone light, but with roots deep in older wars:

“Ah, yes — Medina, restless bed.
Where gods competed, prophets bled.
The altars rose, the knives were bright.
Each prayer a claim, each fire a right.
Back then, my friend, what violence meant —
Was not yet codified or spent.
Do you agree, my fellow voice?
Was blood the price, or just the choice?”

He drank. Slowly. Deliberately.
Signaling not thirst, but readiness.

Muhammad answered — not too fast.
He began to speak, but let the words meander.
He described Medina, its tribes, its feuds, its fragile pacts.
He quoted verses, told stories with care, adding details that slowed the pace.
He was waiting — waiting to be interrupted.

Moses did not bite. Not yet.

Instead, at every pause, he nodded, eyes half-closed.

“Continue, brother. It’s rare, you see,
For guests to climb this sky to me.
Few reach this level — even less
With such composed and measured breath.”

Muhammad smirked — not mockery, but play.

He adjusted his rhythm, tempting interruption.
Still, Moses listened.

Then suddenly — like a river finding a crack in the stone —
Moses found his moment.

“Tell me... In Medina, as time flows —
Does still a synagogue there rose?”

Muhammad paused. The question felt light — too light.
But its echo was deep.

He took a long sip, the steam veiling his eyes.

“You parted seas and struck the stone.
You bore a people not your own.
Your Lord is fierce, yet endlessly kind.
Yes, the synagogue still stands — behind.”

Moses heard more than the words.
He heard the quiet apology not spoken,
for all that history folded, burned, or lost.

He did not answer directly.
Just sipped. And shifted.

“And in that house, do voices still
Read Torah’s truth — not bent by will?”

“They read. They weep. They turn each page.
They carry still your ancient rage.”

Moses lowered his cup.
His face changed — not visibly,
but like a map suddenly remembering forgotten roads.

He saw not just the synagogue,
but every sacred scroll caught between two faiths.

A long silence fell.

Muhammad waited. Offered space — not out of courtesy,
but out of brotherhood.

Finally, Moses asked — not gently, not sharply —
but like one who had waited too long:

“In that Torah — in that house —
What name they give al-Quds, the spouse?”

Muhammad did not answer with logic.
He whispered.

— Jerusalem.

His eyes filled with tears not of sadness,
but of memory too heavy to hold.

Moses placed his hand on Muhammad’s shoulder.

Nothing else was said.
The curtain falls.