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 *** ***

The Broken Compass

He searched for truth where silence fell,
In shattered rooms he knew too well.
A boy whose heart would twist and turn
At warmth that made his insides burn.

He trusted feelings not his own,
Implanted deep, yet overgrown.
A friendly glance, a gentle smile—
To him, alarms that screamed "exile."

His compass cracked, his world askew,
He feared the kind, embraced the cruel.
And so, alone, he walked the night,
Chasing wrong and fleeing right.

x x x

He found him at a late-night fest,
Where basslines throbbed beneath the chest.
No clinic sign, no waiting queue—
Just flashing lights and something true.

The man was spinning vinyl slow,
A haloed calm in neon glow.
"I'm not a doc," he said with ease,
"But music speaks what minds won't tease."

"The path ahead is not a trick,
Not quick, nor safe, nor academic.
You will not win by being clever—
You walk through fire. Or stay forever.

You’ll feel the pulse beneath the skin,
Where guilt and memory begin.
You’ll hear old echoes in the floor,
And ghosts behind your father’s door.

You’ll pass through hallways dim and wide,
Where dreams you’ve buried learn to hide.
You’ll meet the parts you’ve named as shame,
And call them back, and speak their name.

It hurts," he said, "it always will—
But pain that’s faced begins to still.
And when you see what made you fall,
You’ll lose the fear… but not recall.

There is no shortcut. There’s no lie
That takes you ‘round the need to cry.
But in the weeping, light is sown—
And in that light, you’ll be your own."

The Garden Within

Somewhere in Namur, not far from the stone arches of an old Catholic church, there’s a café where the cups are slightly chipped, the jazz is low, and the waiter knows to leave you alone with your thoughts.

You didn’t come here to think about Eden. And yet.

The sound of the church bells reminds you of something older than the city. Older than Latin. Older than stone. Something that has no name—but breathes.

You’ve heard the names before. Adam. Eve. God.

Not in sermons, necessarily. Maybe in art. A whispered story. A fable your grandmother half-remembered on a train.

But what if those names didn’t come from books at all? What if they were echoes, like steam curling up from a mug, like instinct?

x x x
x x x
x x x

In the beginning, there were no words. Not even beginning.

There was a garden, yes—but not as a place, more like a state of being. No language. No shame. No laws, because nothing had gone wrong yet.

God didn’t speak like we do. He didn’t explain things in grammar. He moved in temperature shifts. In pressure behind the eyes. In that quiet way the heart sometimes tightens when you know you’re near something important.

He tried to warn them—not in commands, but in sensations. Eve felt the warmth of curiosity before she knew its name. Adam felt peace in her nearness, and followed—not because he wanted rebellion, but because he had never known pain. He didn’t know what could break.

So when they crossed the threshold, it wasn’t an explosion. It was a subtle twist in the air. A breath held too long. A trust that suddenly had weight.

And that’s when it began: The long education of the subconscious.

Because the conscious mind is slow. It reflects, it debates, it makes pro and con lists. But the subconscious? It moves fast. It remembers pain. It links moments together with no need for permission.

A smile followed by betrayal? A warm hand followed by shame? The subconscious says: Ah. This feeling must mean danger. And it learns. Too well.

So now, years later, you sit in this café. You touch kindness and feel fear. You hear laughter and wait for the punchline to sting. You say, “I have good intuition.” But maybe it’s not intuition. Maybe it’s old data. From a broken file. Written in Eden. In your own body.

You didn’t choose this trap. But you’re in it. And the only way out is through remembering.

Not just the moment you were hurt. But the moment before. The moment that felt safe. The scent. The light. The instinct.

You must return. Find the forgotten signal. The original feeling. And gently ask it to come back.

Adam & Eve

Eve didn’t sin. She felt. There was no word for wrong yet. No category. Just… a shimmer. A ripple in the air around the tree. Like a breeze that smells different, and makes you curious.

The moment she reached out, she wasn’t breaking a rule. She was following a chord that had never been played before.

And Adam— He wasn’t a rebel. He had never watched someone lie. Never seen anyone cry alone. He followed her because he didn’t know how not to.

And then—quietly—something shifted.

Not thunder. Not fire. But a silence that went too long. A knowing that sat in the gut.

The body took note. And suddenly, the warmth Eve once carried now came with danger. The same closeness that felt divine—now came with ache. Touch and fear got braided together.

This is how it begins.

x x x
x x x
x x x

Then they had children.

And the memory of the Garden — it didn’t pass through words. It passed through eyes. Through the way Adam held his breath when someone asked a hard question. Through the way Eve looked at joy with suspicion, like it might vanish if held too tightly.

Their sons inherited that silence. But Cain— Cain inherited the confusion.

He felt love. He wanted to be enough. But every smile he offered his father was met with an invisible shadow: “Why not like Abel?”

No one said it out loud. But it hummed in the walls. It lived in the gaps between approval and indifference.

So when Abel’s gift was accepted, and Cain’s was not, it wasn’t just rejection. It was confirmation.

“See?” “You’re not safe. Even love is a contest.” And the blood rose. Not because he was evil— But because the map in his body was broken.

And he struck. Not just his brother. He struck against the idea that love must be earned. That existence was not enough.

He killed for clarity. He killed to stop the ache.

Cain’s City

He wandered east of mercy’s light,
With blood still humming in his sight.
No chains, no flames, no gallows tree—
Just silence vast as history.

He begged for death, but none would give.
So he was left, condemned… to live.
Not punished loud, but punished deep—
To build a world where ghosts don’t sleep.

He found a hill, and raised a wall
From memories he dared not call.
Each stone he placed with shaking hands—
Regret in mortar, grief in sands.

No music yet. No song, no name—
Just echoes carved from shapeless blame.
But still he built. And day by day,
The silence took more form than clay.

A forge was lit to temper steel,
To shape the rage he could not feel.
And somewhere, music found its tone
From hollow bones and dust alone.

The city grew—a fractured heart,
With every gate a work of art
That whispered: “Here, the wounded stay,
And build until the ache decays.”

No sermons rang. No priest forgave.
But every roof was still a grave
He couldn’t mark, or even mourn—
For he was cursed, but still… reborn.

He named the city for his son—
A vow that something may go on.
Not pure. Not holy. Not made right.
But honest, under exiled night.

And though no Eden touched its flame,
And God no longer spoke his name—
Within the walls, he found one grace:
To build a world
from what
took place.

x x x
x x x
x x x

Years pass. Generations unfold like trembling scrolls. People scatter. The memory of Eden becomes a ghost.

But the ache remains. The feeling that love must cost something. That joy is suspicious. That safety must be proven.

And then comes Abraham.

He hears a voice. He doesn’t know if it’s God, or memory, or the echo of his ancestors’ dread. But he calls it God. Because in the silence of the stars, what else do you call the thing that moves you without explanation?

And this Voice says: “Take your son.”

Not a son. Your son. The one you waited for. The one who healed you. The one whose laughter made you believe in the future again.

Take him. Climb the mountain. Build the fire. And offer him to Me.

And Abraham... obeys.

Not because he hates his son. But because love, to him, has always been tangled with sacrifice. Always measured by what you're willing to give up. Even if it’s the thing you love most. Especially if it’s the thing you love most.

He ties Isaac down. Hand trembling, breath shallow, but convinced that trust means surrendering everything— even the heart of his own child.

And Isaac? He doesn't scream. Because Isaac was raised in a house where feelings were quiet, where obedience was survival, and where God lived in the space between a father’s eyes and a knife.

But then— the Voice speaks again. “Stop.” “Now I know.”

Know what?

That Abraham would not withhold love from pain. That he would offer even purity to appease what he believed was holy.

But what if the test wasn't about Isaac at all?

What if the real test was whether Abraham would dare say no?

Whether he would protect the vulnerable, stand for softness, challenge the ancient reflex that said: “Love must be proven through wounds.”

But he didn’t. He passed the test—but failed the question.

x x x

The Book of Job

x x x

Job was righteous. Not just good. Not performatively moral. He was real.

He fed the poor without needing thanks. He prayed for his children in case they ever sinned in secret. He gave quietly. He feared God with awe, not calculation.

And for a while, the world agreed. He had land, family, peace. It felt... balanced. As if goodness had finally found its reward.

But then— The wind changed. A messenger came. Then another. Then another.

A storm killed his children. Raiders took his livestock. Sickness broke his body. And worst of all— His friends came to “explain.”

They said: “Surely you did something.” “God is just. You must be hiding sin.”

But Job knew. He wasn’t hiding anything. He had nothing to hide.

And that’s when the real agony began: Not just the pain, but the unbearable question: “What if suffering isn’t fair?”

He prayed. He cursed his birth. He begged for a trial. He demanded an audience with God.

And finally— God answered.

But not with logic. Not with comfort. Not with justice.

God said: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” “Do you know how the mountain goats give birth?” “Can you bind the stars?”

He didn’t defend Himself. He didn’t justify the pain. He unfolded the mystery. Not as a puzzle— but as a storm.

And Job… fell silent.

Not out of fear. Out of perspective. Out of awe. He realized he’d been asking the wrong question.

Not “Why did this happen to me?” But “Can I live without knowing, and still trust?”

He was no longer bargaining. No longer trying to deserve peace. He saw that life wasn't a transaction. And God wasn't a vending machine of reward.

He said: “Before, I had heard of You with my ears. But now... my eyes have seen You.”

And that changed everything.

Not because his wealth was restored—though it was. Not because he got answers—he didn’t. But because he came through the fire without losing the thread of truth.

x x x

Jesus

x x x

He could have walked.
He knew the hills,
The back roads through the olive fields.
He could have vanished in the dark—
No trial, no nails, no mocking ark.

He healed the blind.
He stilled the sea.
A word, a breath—and He’d be free.
The sky itself would bend to spare
The one who chose the cross laid bare.

But still…
He stayed.

He let them come with ropes and lies,
He let them spit, avert their eyes.
He let the hammer fall, the thorn—
The crowd that cheered, the friends that mourned.

He felt the fear.
The doubt. The weight.
The silence of a God too late.
He did not know if death would end
In light…
or just
a grave again.

And still…
He stayed.

He stayed not for the crown or name,
Not for reward, not even fame.
He stayed to show what love could be—
Unarmed. Unforced.
No guarantee.

No promise that the world would change,
No proof that hearts would rearrange.
He stayed because He loved them still,
Though love would break before it heal.

He could have fled.
He had the right.
But mercy doesn't seek the flight.
It looks straight in the eyes of pain
And whispers,
“Let this not be vain.”

So when you wonder
what it takes
To love despite the fear that shakes—
Remember this:
He wasn't sure.
He wasn’t spared.
He wasn’t pure
of doubt, of ache, of human dread…
But still, He hung, and bled, and said:
“Forgive them—they don’t understand.”

And that
was how
He touched
the land.

x x x

The Apocalypse

x x x

But the story doesn’t end on the cross. It breaks time open.

Jesus disappears into death — Not with a glowing exit, but with silence.

And for three days, the universe holds its breath.

Then — something impossible: the breath returns.

Not just to Jesus — but to the story itself.

Now, death is no longer a final wall. It’s a door.

But here’s what matters: He did it not knowing He would rise.

And so the Second Coming isn’t about lightning and wrath. It’s not divine revenge. It’s not the bullied child finally burning the school down.

It’s a return of the one who forgave while dying. A return of that exact heart.

And the apocalypse? It’s not the end of the world. It’s the end of illusion.

It’s when everything hidden is revealed. Not just sins, but wounds. Not just crimes, but the secret aching under every angry mask.

When He comes back, He won’t ask: “Were you pure?” He’ll ask: “Did you learn to love without guarantees?”

Because that’s what He did. On the worst night, in the darkest hour, He loved without knowing if it would work.

And that is how the world is saved.

Bonus Track: Between the Old and New Testimonies

There’s a place deeper than memory. A place beneath words, beneath even pain— where unprocessed sorrow lives, where ancient mistakes echo like unfinished prayers.

The Bible calls it “Sheol.” Tradition calls it “hell.” But it isn’t fire and demons. It’s the basement of the soul— the realm of guilt too old to name, of wars fought in the name of God, of silent regrets passed down like blood.

And Jesus, the Son of Man, chose to descend there.

Not just for three days in time, but into the timeless depths of human trauma, where the wounds of history wait unhealed.

He went not as a warrior, but as a reconciler. He went to meet Abraham, Moses, David— not to judge them, but to say:

“You did what you could with what you had. Now let Me show a way not built on fear.”

This descent was not a pause before glory. It was the glory. To go where no light had gone— and bring love there.

What follows is a poem. But really, it’s a map. Of how healing begins in the darkest place.