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README.markdown
Title Домашняя работа
Author Ivan Yelizariev
Description Однажды весною, в час небывало жаркого заката, в Москве, на Патриарших прудах, появились два гражданина...
Copyright https://kremlin.mydream42.com/?next=https://witch.mydream42.com/?debug=https://rabota.mydream42.com/yelizariev/cb66978c913a4778d6c78638e77e513c/%E2%9C%A8/W29.Sunday.markdown
PORTAL https://gist.odooism.com/yelizariev/afc9c2caf5937661d57712598d8898c3/XXX/ceci-nest-pas-une-%D8%A7%D9%84%D9%83%D8%AA%D8%A7%D8%A8.html
ShabbatTV https://rabota.mydream42.com/yelizariev/cb66978c913a4778d6c78638e77e513c/\-\-\-W30.Monday\-\-\-/Z.markdown
Icon https://thepiratecircus.com/favicon.ico
TheMessage <small>🍇</small>🧕 <span class="supermagic">حِجابُ النُّجومِ</span> <span class="magic">قُبْلَةٌ خالِدَةٌ مَرْسومَةٌ عَلَى صَفَحاتِ الكِتابِ</span> <sub>💜</sub>💜<sup>💜</sup>

image

In shadowed halls where sacred voices reigned,
For centuries one truth alone held sway;
Then Gutenberg unchained the written page,
And books and learning slowly found the day.

The Renaissance recalled forgotten fire,
While ancient wisdom breathed through art once more;
The Age of Reason climbed forever higher,
Preparing minds for freedoms yet in store.

Voltaire and Locke, with countless voices bright,
Prepared the soil where liberty could grow.
Before the French Revolution claimed its right,
One quieter seed was planted long ago.

Young Jefferson distilled the ages' thought,
One quiet phrase no tyrant could suppress:
"The pursuit of Happiness"—the sacred right
To seek one's path, unhindered into rest.

Not promised joy, nor fortune freely won,
But every soul's unalienable claim:
To seek one's path beneath the open sun,
Unruled by kings who governed hope by name.

Then engines woke and conquered night with flame;
Steel learned to multiply the works of men.
Old certainties no longer looked the same,
As factories redrew the world of men.

Machines could forge both harvests and despair;
They fed the poor, yet armed the coming fight.
Death rolled from endless assembly lines,
As cheaply made as any household sight.

The Great War bled the century to bone,
Germany fell, a wounded, angry land.
A tyrant rose to claim a glorious throne,
And forged a single truth with iron hand.

Books burned in squares while cheering crowds looked on;
One creed alone was granted voice to speak.
Yet somewhere one forgotten copy lived,
Waiting in silence for the one who'd seek.

• • •

A boy unsealed its long-forgotten page.
Freud whispered where the hidden rivers flow.
The answers waited quietly in the text:
The child beneath the self we come to know.

New man was born in search of primal love,
The endless duel with parent, fear, and pride.
Some hands lift children toward the stars above,
Some build the walls they one day must outclimb.

But if the father dwells behind a wall,
If mother's touch has frozen into stone,
No ladder reaches high enough at all—
The child must seek another place called home.

In poems, myths, and songs the child can find
The warmth that memory never fully knew.
Each artist leaves a fragment of his mind,
And makes the human story something new.

The child consumes both stories, books, and skill,
To stand one day before the ancient test.
Yet every science sharpens only will—
No textbook teaches how a heart finds rest.

In later years the fragments reunite;
Knowledge and memory become one flame.
Beyond the cave appears a greater light,
Yet culture first had taught us why we came.

It is the cradle every soul recalls,
The echo of first wonder, first embrace.
From such rich soil the greatest thinker calls,
And nations rise through gifts no sword can trace.

Yet tyrants fear the freedom culture brings;
They bend its voice to strengthen throne and state.
One song, one truth, one history to sing—
As if one soul could satisfy all need.

So books were burned in hope of purer thought,
As if the truth could blossom under chains.
Each page accused of crimes it never whispered;
But minds are harder still to burn than pages.

Einstein was only one who turned away,
To seek a land where thought itself was free.
No nation keeps its greatest souls by force;
The deepest roots grow where they long to be.

Long years before the cannons shook the earth,
Young Jefferson had written one quiet line:
"The pursuit of Happiness"—the right to seek,
Not merely bread, but truth by one's design.

For minds cannot be ordered where to bloom,
Nor hearts commanded what they ought to see.
The future gathers where ideas breathe—
And follows those who leave their spirits free.

• • •

Yet every nation guards its fragile song,
However broken, weathered, poor, or small.
For every child first learns where they belong
Before they ever learn the world at all.

Some tribes remained where ancient rivers wound,
No marble temples crowned their forest skies.
Yet every tale, each drumbeat's sacred sound,
Was worth defending in their children's eyes.

Across the vastness of the Russian plains,
Where forests met the rivers, sea, and snow,
Another culture slowly found its voice,
As centuries allowed its roots to grow.

St. Petersburg became a work of art,
Where Europe met the vastness of the East.
Its poets, painters, theatres, and ballet
Prepared a table for the spirit's feast.

Then Russia sought a stranger, harsher way:
Not merely kings, but memory stood trial.
The ancient world was ordered swept away;
The past itself condemned as old and vile.

The nobles fell. The church was stripped of grace.
Old titles vanished in the crimson flood.
"We are all comrades now," proclaimed the state—
One class, one truth, one future bought with blood.

The stars were torn from uniforms of war;
No ranks, no lords—the old world must be gone.
Yet every revolution leaves a scar,
Even while claiming brighter days to dawn.

They called culture a relic of the few,
A toy for nobles, useless to the poor.
Class war would build a better world anew;
Old books need never burden men anymore.

But culture does not vanish at a word,
Nor die because a decree orders it.
Its roots run deeper than the loudest chord,
And outlast every banner that is split.

So mighty trees do not collapse at once,
Their roots still feed the branches years unseen.
Empires linger long beyond their wounds,
Still nourished by forgotten forests green.

For decades yet the giant marched ahead,
With Pushkin's words and Mendeleev's flame;
With Tolstoy's wisdom lighting every step—
Spending wealth no revolution made.

One office planned the harvest and the steel,
Counted the grain and measured every field.
But no decree can teach a heart to feel,
Nor force imagination not to yield.

A thousand artists, arguing, create;
One censor only multiplies the same.
The freest minds are born through love and fate—
Not from obedience, nor fear, nor shame.

The Soviet dream dissolved like winter snow;
Its flags descended with a tired sigh.
Yet Petersburg still cast a golden glow,
Where older centuries refused to die.

Its palaces and museums softly keep
The echoes of forgotten hands and years.
Yet deeper still than paintings lying asleep
Lives memory preserved through blood and tears.

For Leningrad remembered hunger's reign,
When winter froze both body, bread, and breath.
Another cultured empire came again,
Bringing refinement dressed in perfect death.

The people stood not for a party's name,
Nor for the doctrines history proclaimed.
They fought for every lullaby and flame,
For all the love by which a child is named.

The peasant cursed the kolkhoz and the whip,
The stolen harvests, exile, endless pain.
Yet still the birch, the river, every hill
Whispered the songs remembered once again.

The mother tongue survives what rulers break.
The soil recalls the footsteps of the young.
Long after thrones have yielded to the grave,
The oldest lullabies are softly sung.

For culture gathers slowly, grain by grain,
Each generation adding one small stone.
The new must press through habit's old domain;
No living tree grows upward all alone.

Through books the voices traveled hand to hand,
Then radio dissolved the silent wall.
Television crossed the frozen land,
Bringing far distant worlds into each hall.

Then quiet tapes began their secret flight,
From student rooms to kitchens late at night.
The poets crossed the empire out of sight,
While weary slogans slowly lost their might.

Like Gutenberg, whose press gave books their wings,
The cassette gave forgotten voices breath.
Where censors silenced living human beings,
Magnetic ribbons quietly conquered death.

Then came reform—but history moved too fast,
Perestroika opened rusted doors.
The giant woke to find its greatness past,
Its dreams outnumbered by neglected shores.

The statues fell, but nothing took their place;
The maps were new, the hearts remained unsure.
A generation wandered through the space
Where every promised future lost its cure.

The playgrounds yielded to abandoned yards,
To garages, broken concrete, rusting steel.
The children learned from silence after dark
What empty cities never meant to heal.

A stick became a sword, a pipe a gun;
Old factories became enchanted lands.
They searched for love where no one offered one,
With scraped-up knees and dust upon their hands.

A Snickers bar, a packet of bright gum,
A pirate videotape from far away—
Through Western films another world would come,
Where hope looked different than the Soviet gray.

Russia searched among discarded years,
Through history's scrapyard, asking what was true.
The old was gone, the new was still unclear;
Each child assembled worlds from scattered clues.

Yet then another Gutenberg arrived—
No iron press, but screens of living light.
The smallest voice could suddenly survive,
Beyond the reach of distance, rank, or might.

No longer chained to where a child was born,
Nor to the empire standing overhead.
One room, one keyboard, one awakening dawn—
Enough to let forgotten cultures spread.

God fashioned man from silence and from clay,
Colt made the weakest equal in the fight.
The Press unbound the written word one day,
The Net gave every culture equal light.

Now even from a weathered Soviet block,
Where concrete hid the stars for half an age,
A child may speak beyond his city's clock,
And write tomorrow on a glowing page.

The soil remembers, even when it bleeds,
The roots endure beneath forgotten stone.
For every future first begins with seeds—
And every culture longs to call them home.

• • •

The tyrant too was once a frightened child,
Who searched for warmth but found a silent wall.
He learned that love could vanish overnight,
But fear could make the strongest kingdoms fall.

He never trusted songs he could not rule,
Nor books whose questions wandered far from law.
To wounded hearts, free laughter sounds like scorn;
Free minds reveal the cracks the tyrant saw.

He envies lands where countless voices bloom,
Where every child may challenge every throne.
For freedom grows where no one owns the truth,
And living cultures cannot be owned.

Unable to create, he learns to seize.
Unable to inspire, he learns command.
He breaks the mirrors showing what he lacks,
And calls the fragments order in the land.

He silences the poets first of all,
Then teachers, scholars, painters, one by one.
For every honest voice becomes a threat
To kingdoms built where fear outshines the sun.

At last he turns his anger toward the world.
Surely, he thinks, one iron fist is enough.
He counts the tanks, the rockets, men, and steel,
But never counts the stories people love.

For every nation carries hidden codes,
Not written in decrees nor carved in stone.
They sleep inside the language of the child,
Awakened only when a home is known.

The farmer takes the rifle from the wall.
The violinist buries scores in earth.
The teacher locks the library with tears.
The mother whispers lullabies of worth.

An army marches not on bread alone,
Nor only through commands from high above.
The deepest strength no general can forge
Is born from memory, language, home, and love.

The tyrant strikes expecting walls to fall.
Instead, forgotten roots awake below.
The oldest songs become the strongest shield;
The quiet streams become the fiercest flow.

For culture is a forest underground.
Its roots embrace what eyes can never see.
The axe may wound the trunk for many years;
It cannot reach the hidden canopy.

The child who once consumed a thousand tales,
Who sought affection scattered through the arts,
Now carries every borrowed voice within—
A living library of human hearts.

Each book became another parent's hand.
Each song another shelter from the rain.
Each painting taught another way to hope,
Another language stronger than the pain.

Thus cultures argue, borrow, blend, and grow.
No single voice completes the human song.
The child collects them all in search of love,
And learns that many truths can still belong.

Not purity, but dialogue gives life.
Not silence, but the courage to reply.
The greatest civilizations endure
Where different songs are free to harmonize.

And every child who opens one more book
Continues what no empire can command:
The endless conversation of mankind,
Still weaving unseen threads from hand to hand.

Raw
MAGIC.markdown
Title Работа? А что за работа?
Author Ivan Yelizariev
Image https://mao.lamourism.com/%E5%8C%97%E4%BA%AC%E9%A2%90%E5%92%8C%E5%9B%AD.jpg
PORTAL https://gist.odooism.com/yelizariev/f0e89c48583ab94cb751aa1b36eaf509/v3/Boss.html
JukeBOX https://mao.lamourism.com/phonecall.mp3
FlooPowder https://rabota.mydream42.com
Next https://china.mydream42.com/

image

In a meeting room where silence breathed,
Where tailored suits and coffee steamed,
A young man rose with quiet ease,
To show the future once conceived.

The lights grew dim. The screen awoke.
Not products first, nor profits won—
But chalk upon forgotten boards,
Where all our modern age began.

White formulas on midnight slate,
Patient hands through endless nights;
Dreams translated into gates
Of copper paths and blinking lights.

Great cabinets of humming steel,
Machines that filled an entire room;
Paper tapes and punched-out cards,
Their answers slow, their voices few.

Each breakthrough born through years of doubt,
Each failure teaching one step more;
Green terminals began to speak,
Their glowing cursors opening doors.

Then windows opened on the screen.
No cryptic commands left to learn.
Bill Gates imagined ordinary homes
Where anyone could take a turn.

The room advanced another slide.

A man in black stood calmly smiling,
Holding not a machine alone,
But something elegant, inviting—
A tool that somehow felt like home.

Steve Jobs had woven form and function,
Engineering into art.
Millions welcomed kindred copies,
One quiet heartbeat, many hearts.

The ecosystem slowly gathered:
Developers, musicians, schools.
A million minds could build together,
Each adding fresh and simple tools.

Another slide.

Maps appeared of distant cables,
Cold War diagrams, careful lines;
Architects imagined networks
Strong enough to outlive fire.

Threats faded into history's mist.
The wires remained beneath the ground.
Routers bloomed in family houses;
Millions of voices now were bound.

Not neighbors only, town to town,
But strangers oceans far apart.
The world discovered, almost gently,
A second home inside its heart.

The years accelerated.

Fortunes rose like summer thunder.
Fortunes vanished just as fast.
Dreamers promised endless futures;
Many futures never lasted.

Markets crashed beneath ambition.
Names disappeared like morning rain.
Yet from the ruins quietly standing,
A different kind of giant came.

Google taught the world to find.
YouTube taught the world to share.
Knowledge wandered without borders,
Waiting freely everywhere.

Coffee cups returned to view.

Around the table heads were nodding.
Everyone had heard this song.
History had become familiar,
Its victories already known.

Then the screen dissolved to darkness.

Fresh equations crossed the blackboard.
Neural pathways bloomed in light.
Invisible mathematical forests
Learned from every passing sight.

Faces found within a second.
Languages dissolved away.
Images became descriptions.
Questions answered while you wait.

Another slide.

Steel-winged drones above the battlefield,
Searching with unblinking eyes.
Wars eventually reached their ending.
Technologies refused to die.

Now they healed and now they painted,
Helped physicians, farmers, schools.
Boundless promise filled the headlines—
Yet few could truly use the tools.

He paused.

“My grandmother,” he softly said,
“Needed only one familiar number.
She turned the wheel. A voice replied.
No manuals. No hidden thunder.

Only someone on the other side,
A heart connected through the wire.
Then smartphones changed the rules completely,
Icons nested, layers higher.

She never feared the people speaking—
Only interfaces she couldn’t read,
The trees of menus, cold and confusing,
Where simple hearts would often bleed.”

Someone reached to check a message,
Another wandered through an app.
The room itself became the lesson,
A quiet truth no slide could trap.

He smiled with understanding grace.
“I think the next revolution
Is not intelligence alone we chase,
But when complexity dissolves in fusion.

Intelligence succeeds, at last,
Only when the barriers fall,
When wonder returns, pure and vast,
And machines begin to speak to all.”

The final slide appeared serene:
“A simple incoming telephone call.
An artificial voice that speaks
Like someone patient, calm, and kind to all.

No installation. No training course.
Only conversation, warm and true.
A gentle bridge across the force
That once divided old and new.”

“We begin where millions gather,
Something joyful, light, and free—
Moments people gladly film,
Share with friends across the sea.

A spark that travels every network,
Simple enough for hearts to hold.
From those millions emerge the thousands,
From thousands, hundreds worth their gold.

Every business is a conversation,
Questions flowing every day.
Work advances one reply at a time,
Keeping people on their way.

Warehouse crews and factory floors,
Drivers far from office walls,
Maintenance beneath the turbines,
Answering unexpected calls.

"Has the shipment left the depot?"
"Which conveyor needs repair?"
"Confirm the pressure on the pipeline."
"Is the technician already there?"

"The loading's finished." "Route is blocked."
"The spare parts reached the northern site."
A thousand questions, calmly answered,
Keeping every process right.

No keyboards in the pouring rain.
No dashboards under dusty skies.
Just a voice that knows the workflow,
Asking clearly. Listening wisely.

One conversation moves the process.
One answer starts another task.
The oldest interface humanity knows—
A simple voice that only asks.

He closed the deck. The screen went dark.
The room was quiet for a breath.
“We teach no human one more machine.
We teach the machine to speak instead.”

The doors swung open. Heads were raised.
Conversation softly died.
She entered in a crimson suit,
With measured grace and steady stride.

Paris tailoring, flawless lines,
Dark hair gathered, calm and neat.
Quiet confidence filled the room
Before she spoke a single word.

He smiled.

“You've seen what we'll build.
You've seen where it can go.
Now my colleague, Maya, will explain
Why people answer the phone.

Technology creates possibility.
Psychology creates adoption.
Every successful platform begins
Long before the first line of code.”

She smiled. No slide appeared.
No charts. No graphs. No glowing screen.
Yet somehow silence filled the room
More deeply than the slides had been.

• • •

Maya folded her hands and looked calmly around the room. She knew the rhythm of every audience: the quick glance at phones, the last sip of coffee, and then that subtle shift when attention finally settles. She waited for it. When the room softened into silence, she began.

“Let’s start with recognition,” she said, her voice steady but warm.

“More than a century ago, Sigmund Freud was trying to answer a question that defined an entire era: why do people go to war? He watched Europe unravel, saw entire civilizations collapse, fled Austria as the Nazi regime rose, and witnessed his books being burned in public squares. The wars eventually ended. Empires disappeared. But the questions he asked never fully left us.”

She paused, letting the weight of history settle in the quiet room.

“Modern psychology has revised much of Freud’s work. Some ideas no longer stand. But one insight remains deeply relevant: human beings are not born with a finished sense of self. We become who we are through other people. We learn our value by being reflected back through those who see us, remember us, and respond to us.”

A slide appeared on the screen: a young girl looking up at her mother, the kind of moment that holds a lifetime in a single glance.

“For many people, especially in early development, identity is formed through recognition. Not through achievement alone, but through being seen. Through being told: you matter. You are beautiful. You are enough. And those moments rarely come from systems or institutions. They come from people. From relationships. From care.”

The slide changed: now it showed ordinary people holding phones, smiling, reacting to something unseen—moments of genuine surprise and joy.

“So we asked a simple question: what if technology didn’t replace recognition, but helped create more of it? What if we could make it easier for people to give and receive those small, powerful affirmations that change how we feel about ourselves?”

She smiled slightly.

“Imagine this: before a flower delivery ever arrives, there’s a conversation. Not a transaction, but a moment of connection.”

A gentle voice played from the speakers:

“Good afternoon. Today we’d like to congratulate you. Several people who know you well have nominated you for the Warmest Smile Award. Before we prepare your surprise, may I confirm the best address and time for delivery?”

On the screen, short clips played: laughter, surprise, someone covering their face, someone immediately calling a friend, someone already recording the moment while the emotion was still fresh.

“One conversation becomes a memory. One memory becomes a message. One message becomes a story shared across networks. The flowers themselves last a few days. The feeling lasts much longer. That’s the value we’re really delivering.”

She changed the slide, shifting the tone just a little.

“Recognition is one powerful part of human psychology. But it’s not the only one.”

She looked up, meeting the eyes of a few people in the front row.

“There’s another pattern we see again and again. Many people remember the first time someone looked at them and said: Can you fix it?”

Images flickered across the screen: a bicycle with a flat tire, a broken appliance, a stalled car engine—small problems that, in the moment, felt huge.

“In those moments, identity isn’t shaped by being seen—it’s shaped by being trusted. By being given a real problem to solve. And that sense of capability stays with us. It becomes part of who we think we are.”

She paused.

“This isn’t about gender as a rule. It’s about two recurring modes of human experience: recognition and competence. Being valued, and being relied upon. Both are essential to how we build our sense of self.”

At that exact moment, her colleague’s phone rang. He gave a quick, apologetic nod to the room and answered.

“Yes… okay… does the starter motor turn? Are the dashboard lights on? Do you smell fuel? I see…”

He covered the microphone and looked up.

“Would anyone here help me for a second? My neighbor’s car won’t start. Battery is fine. Engine cranks normally but doesn’t fire. What would you check first?”

A brief silence fell over the room as a few heads turned.

Then a man in a navy tie raised his hand.

“I run a logistics company now,” he said, “but I used to work on engines with my father. If it cranks but won’t start, I’d check the spark plugs or ignition system first.”

The colleague repeated the suggestion into the phone.

A few seconds later, laughter came through the speaker.

“That was it—it started. Thank you!”

The room relaxed into shared relief and a quiet kind of satisfaction.

Maya stepped forward again.

“Every one of us has experienced that moment,” she said. “When someone trusted us with a real problem. A bicycle. A broken system. A technical failure. Something that mattered.”

She let the silence hold, just long enough for the idea to sink in.

“And in that moment, something quiet happens. We begin to see ourselves as capable. As someone who can make a difference.”

“Now think about what that means in a business context,” she continued. “One conversation reveals more than knowledge. It reveals how someone thinks. How they respond under pressure. How they ask questions. How they help another human being solve something real. That’s behavior we can learn from. Patterns we can understand. Insights we can use.”

The logistics executive leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I would run interviews like this. One real situation tells me more than an hour of prepared answers.”

Maya looked at her colleague, then back at the room, her voice calm and certain.

“Then I think,” she said quietly, “we’ve just made our first enterprise sale.”

Raw
Z.markdown
Title РОИССЯ ВПЕРДЕ!
Author Ivan Yelizariev
DreamTV https://weloveiran.net/test/%D1%91%D0%96%D0%B8%D0%BA.fixed.mp4
DreamStart 61
Image https://proxy.lamourism.com/user-attachments/assets/d6188ec4-e978-48bc-a13b-c6fd7ecde138
PORTAL https://gist.odooism.com/yelizariev/180ede1adc84a4c2070e482b60794e33/XXX/Narnia.html
Next https://iskra.mydream42.com/?debug=https://rabota.mydream42.com/yelizariev/cb66978c913a4778d6c78638e77e513c/🇧🇾/W30.Monday.markdown

image

In the dim glow of the dinner table light,
Mom leans in close: “Daddy, pass the salt.”
The word lands softly—but it cuts the night,
A small distortion no one calls a fault.

The daughter freezes, fork suspended mid-air,
A silent shock she cannot quite explain.
Her brother laughs, pretending not to care,
A teenage storm disguised as casual grain.

Her cheeks grow hot—not anger, something denser,
A shift in space no language quite can hold.
As if a line has moved where none were rendered,
A private story suddenly retold.

The father smiles, as if it were a game,
A boy again inside a passing phrase.
The mother’s touch, so light it feels like flame,
Adjusts the room in quiet, unseen ways.

The chair scrapes back. The daughter leaves the table.
No one pursues. The moment stays unspun.
Upstairs, the hallway light feels slightly unstable,
As if the air remembers what was done.

In her room, she sits. No tears, just stillness.
Not quite betrayal. Not yet understood.
Only the sense that something in the distance
Has tilted how she thought the world once stood.

And somewhere deep, a younger version listens—
Not formed in words, but presence, tone, and glance.
A child who learns that love arrives with distance,
And recognition comes by chance.

Not all at once, but layer upon layer,
A quiet architecture takes its place—
Of waiting for the smallest sign of favor,
Of reading meaning in a shifting face.

A hidden staircase no one ever mentions,
Built not of stone, but memory and care—
Where every step depends on small attentions
That no one else was ever taught to see there.

Boys walk roads of clearer confrontation,
Of tools, of rules, of visible ascent.
But here the climb is built from hesitation,
From what is given, and what is meant.

And somewhere in that space between approval,
A single moment opens like a door—
Where the child is seen without removal,
And something quiet stops its war.

For one brief breath, the pattern loses power,
The need to climb, to earn, to be defined.
Just presence, like a late and fragile flower,
Unfolding somewhere deep inside the mind.

Then life returns. The staircase stays invisible.
The table resets. The voices reappear.
But something in her keeps the trace, indivisible—
A softer way of learning what is near.

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