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| Title | There is no Royal Road to geometry |
|---|---|
| Author | Ivan Yelizariev |
| Description | Эврика, блядь! |
| Copyright | https://kremlin.lamourism.com/ |
| 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://gist.github.com/yelizariev/d725607264fc7cebf69dfc5dbf7d073e |
| 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> |
In Athens where the olive branches grew,
And thinkers mapped the order of the sky,
The polis learned what human minds could do,
And kings looked on with calculating eye.
For every theorem sharpened human sight,
And every shipwright learned the sea's command;
The thread of culture strengthened royal might,
And placed new instruments in empire's hand.
Then Alexander harnessed wisdom's flame,
And carried Greece upon a soldier's spear;
The scholars followed closely in his train,
While freedom shrank with every frontier.
The libraries enlarged the empire's reach,
The maps improved the taxman's patient art;
What poets built, administrators seized,
And networks slowly yielded to the state's vast heart.
Then Rome assembled continents as one,
With roads and laws extending far and wide;
Aqueducts and baths beneath the sun,
The world's vast circulation unified.
Yet every vertical demands a creed,
A higher roof to bind the realm below;
And Constantine supplied the growing need,
With one eternal truth for all to know.
The statues lost their faces one by one,
Their marble bodies hidden under dust;
The questions asked by Athens were undone,
As certainty replaced the habit of distrust.
The baths grew silent. Water ceased to flow.
The sewers cracked beneath neglected stone.
Men knew that God had made the world below,
Yet less of how their grandfathers had known.
Europe forgot why Colosseums stood,
Or how the Romans managed public space;
While noble courts, convinced that filth was good,
Collected lice in ornaments of grace.
Yet beauty is a patient thing indeed,
And waits beneath the rubble of an age;
The church commissioned saints for every creed,
And artists smuggled Plato through the page.
Da Vinci sketched where angels used to reign,
While Galileo turned his lens above;
The old horizons widened once again,
And reason slowly reunited with love.
Then came Paris with liberty's refrain,
The crowd discovered power in its voice;
And from the storm emerged Napoleon,
Who made both throne and revolution choice.
He rode upon the people's living will,
Yet crowned himself beneath imperial light;
For one brief moment thread and tower stood still,
United in a strange and balanced might.
Then steam unlocked resources once concealed,
And coal replaced the limits nature drew;
The old restraints that networks once revealed
Could no longer tell the state what not to do.
The factories became cathedrals vast,
The ministries inherited heaven's throne;
God died, and new immortal powers amassed,
Demanding faith in systems of their own.
Then came the century of steel and flame,
When Hitler and Stalin reached for total height;
Two monuments erected in mankind's name,
That turned whole continents into the night.
From ruins Europe rose with cautious hands,
Remembering where unchecked ambitions lead;
Seeking balance between competing lands,
Between command and every human need.
Then silicon connected distant minds,
And Steve Jobs placed new networks in each hand;
The citizen regained what time unwinds—
The power once reserved for priest and grandee.
The Greeks had gathered in the marketplace;
Now billions meet upon electric seas.
Yet twentieth-century ghosts still haunt the place,
Still speaking in the dialect of decrees.
They still proclaim that history has a plan,
That every heart must march in ordered lines;
Yet freedom often enters where it can,
Through little doors neglected by designs.
No pharisee asked Jesus of the lace.
No emperor debated silken strings.
No conquistador burned the lingerie case—
They all had larger, grander, holier things.
Yet somehow there, in windows softly lit,
Beneath the notice of both throne and creed,
Survived a realm no empire thought to hit:
The right to choose, not merely to concede.
A pair of panties hanging by the Seine
May seem a trivial thing to guard with pride;
Yet countless tyrants, given time and reign,
Would gladly regulate what hides inside.
For once a power claims the right to say
Which love is pure and which desire is wrong,
Which clothes are fit to wear in light of day,
The lace will not remain untouched for long.
Thus Paris keeps its storefront beacons bright,
While old commandments gather at the gate;
And somewhere rests the nuclear fire of France,
A silent argument with ancient fate.
A strange frontier for history to defend:
Not gold, nor land, nor some strategic hill;
But open lingerie displays—and, in the end,
The freedom to become what one will.
| Title | Товарищ Горбачёв, срочное сообщение ТАСС: в СССР закончилась водка! |
|---|---|
| Author | Ivan Yelizariev |
| PORTAL | https://gist.mydream42.com/yelizariev/c471100943078685f3f3c4dd85516c74/XXX/matrix.html |
| FlooPowder | https://archimedes.mydream42.com |
In the schoolroom, a temple of light and lore,
Children gather, trusting the teacher’s hand,
To shape young minds on history’s open shore,
Unknowing what this century has planned.
The industrial age of desks and bells grows old,
Philosophers still seek what comes instead;
Yet onward rolls the train on rails of old,
While teacher and class ride the path ahead.
They learn the wisdom of the ancient Greeks,
Echoing down through centuries and time,
A scholar steeped in physics, art, mystique,
Who drank deep wine beneath the gods’ sublime.
He served fair Zeus and all the pantheon bright,
To make the polis strong and youth grow wise,
So temples rose in marble pure and light,
And cities stood against the rival skies.
Then “Eureka!” rang — the world was overturned,
A jug of thought submerged in water’s flow;
No walls it had, yet still the mind discerned
The force that lifts what gravity lays low.
Archimedes smiles from portraits in the hall,
His light still shines on minds of every age;
He never saw his gods begin to fall —
Rome rose, then Constantine turned the page.
Through dark millennia the flame burned low,
Revived in Renaissance for newer thrones;
The Christian God gave way as factories grow,
And schools replaced the pulpits and the stones.
The teacher speaks: “A diver knows the press
Of water grows the deeper down he dives;
A square jug feels more force beneath, no less —
This difference upward strives, while weight contrives.”
The class sits still in uniforms of gray,
Though hearts would run to laughter in the sun;
Outside pressure holds them in their stay,
Yet inside pressure too must have its run.
The girls in skirts and trousers hide their spark —
Lace, hearts, and polka dots in secret play,
A quiet dialectic in the dark,
A balance sought in fashion’s soft ballet.
A boy then raises hand from front-row seat:
“Your wisdom humbles, teacher, bow I do —
But does not gravity itself create
The water’s pressure? What if pressure flew?”
The teacher smiles, for once he asked the same,
A boy who chased each answer to its source;
And now he feels a quiet pride aflame,
To help another traveler chart the course.
He sees them dressed alike in muted gray,
As once he sat beneath the classroom's sway;
Only with years did hidden currents show,
The tides beneath the rules all children know.
Yet through such rooms the centuries entwine:
One mind lights two, and two illuminate more;
By countless hands passed down from line to line,
The road reached farther than it had before.
Thus marble schools and workshops, ships and mills,
And observatories watching silent night,
Became the bridge by which humanity wills
To carry ancient questions into flight.
He draws a vision none will soon forget:
On lunar orbit, in a station’s frame,
Archimedes tests where gravity’s absent yet,
Still chasing truth with undiminished flame.
He opens valves — a giant bubble forms,
Floating weightless in the sphere’s embrace;
He dives within, sheds robes of ancient norms,
And cosmic diving shows his ageless grace.
No buoyant force, no downward pull remain,
Yet from the bubble’s heart his voice rings clear:
“Give me a place to stand,” the old Greek cries,
“And I shall move the world — Eureka here!”
The children’s minds soar far beyond the room,
Past rules and bells that hold them in their place;
Through countless lessons, boredom, doubt, and gloom,
Toward harbors carved in unimagined space.
The Greeks once launched frail vessels from the shore,
Seeking what waited past the edge of sight;
Each generation learned a little more,
And passed the torch into a farther night.
Thus wooden hulls became celestial steel,
And questions carried farther than before;
The same old wonder turns the cosmic wheel,
Still urging human hearts toward one shore more.
Upon the border where two worlds align,
The temple stands where hidden harmonies grow;
Disciples trace the sacred paths of mind,
Where silent streams of inner wisdom flow.
The Master speaks: the soul endures assault,
As social currents cloud the inward eye;
The loudest voices often shape our fault,
And teach the heart to fear, obey, and vie.
So once at Troy, beneath the watchful walls,
A private longing swelled to public flame;
Through wounded pride and kings’ ambitious calls,
Desire became a war in honor’s name.
For Helen’s face alone could not command
A thousand ships to cross the wine-dark sea;
It took the weight of custom’s iron hand,
Of oaths, of glory, and inherited decree.
Young warriors marched where elder voices led,
Afraid that shame would outlive mortal breath;
Thus love, ambition, loyalty, and dread
Bound human hearts more tightly still than death.
The outer world is shifting dust and sand,
Its empires rise and vanish with the years;
The Greek gods bowed to Rome’s commanding hand,
Yet beauty outlived conquest, crowns, and spears.
For power builds its monuments to fall,
And hierarchies consume the things they praise;
But love and harmony outlast them all,
Their quiet light enduring through the haze.
A youth observes the elders' ancient rite:
Three ropes of three and four and five unite
To mark a perfect angle in the light—
The theorem sings beyond the reach of night.
Between pure knowledge and imperial need
There stands a conflict ancient as the sun;
For states demand the mind become a steed,
While truth insists no master can own one.
The student learns the language of the real,
And sheds the chains of shadow, guilt, and blame;
Through mathematics' discipline of steel,
He steps beyond the boundaries of name.
The world appears a tapestry of signs,
Woven by empires seeking strength and gain;
Each age constructs the myths that shape its minds,
And arms its children through imagined pain.
Yet in the realm of dreams no judges reign,
No hostile chorus binds the soul in fear;
Beyond the reach of custom, guilt, and shame,
The hidden space of freedom grows sincere.
Within that space the inner temple arms
The seeker with abstractions clear and bright;
He sees the structures hidden within harms,
And maps the currents moving human might.
He finds the fractures where the pressures meet,
Where vertical command meets horizontal need;
Old worlds collapse, new rhythms find their beat,
And death itself prepares another seed.
Upon one vessel sail both dream and Form,
The worlds of seeming and the worlds that are;
Through time’s vast sea, through history’s shifting storm,
They steer by truths no empire can debar.
New minds return, each bearing novel schemes,
New myths to test, new questions to pursue;
They gather where the ancient lantern gleams,
To hear the Master's timeless words: “Be true.”
For Pythagoras still casts his patient seed,
Not counting what new kingdoms rise or fall;
He sows in willing minds no final creed,
But trust that truth may answer every call.
He asks not which disciple, yet unborn,
May bend the course of empires with one thought;
For wisdom cannot flourish under scorn,
Nor harmony be ruled, possessed, or bought.
He teaches how the hidden numbers sing,
How triangles reveal what words conceal;
How every proof becomes a listening string
That tunes the restless heart toward what is real.
He tells of swift Achilles, doomed to chase
The patient tortoise through dividing space;
For every end unfolds another part,
And wisdom lives within the seeking heart.
Beyond each counted prime, however far,
Another waits beyond the furthest known;
No throne can map the boundaries they are,
Nor claim as law what numbers freely own.
The ancient ratios travel hand to hand,
Through dust of wars and ages yet unknown;
No throne can hold them under its command,
For truth takes root wherever it is sown.
Each generation draws new forms in sand,
And tests old theorems by a different sky;
Yet still the search for harmony will stand,
As long as wondering hearts ask how and why.
Thus numbers cross the ocean years cannot divide,
And living patterns pass from mind to mind;
The worlds of Forms and dreams sail side by side,
Still seeking newer balances to find.
In Plato’s cave a soul is born to light,
Where shadows dance upon the cold stone wall.
Its world is but a flickering, fleeting sight,
And chains of custom hold the spirit thrall.
The elders speak with voices calm and wise:
“First master all these shadows, learn their game.”
Yet never do they lift their children’s eyes
To question why the darkness claims its claim.
Like swift Achilles chasing tortoise slow,
Each day the gap appears to close at last.
Yet when the morrow’s golden arrows glow,
The tortoise creeps ahead, the race unpassed.
The paradox divides what cannot split —
It carves time’s flow into a thousand parts,
An endless chase where reason stands adrift,
A mental cage with logic’s cunning arts.
Until the mind perceives the clever lie,
The false division of the moving line.
The prisoner turns, though blinded by the sky,
And steps toward the fire’s first painful shine.
The eyes protest, the body yearns for night,
Old shadows call with comfort’s hollow plea.
Yet slowly forms emerge in growing light —
Reflections, objects, stars, and finally
The Sun.
No longer trapped by what the shadows say,
The essence of all people stands revealed:
We are the dream that casts the shadow’s play —
Life is the error where the known congealed.
The cave remains within the flesh and bone;
Its borrowed language echoes in the mind.
Yet shame dissolves the moment we are shown
No shadow ever held the dream confined.
Become the living illusion, bright and free,
The unseen fire from which appearances fall.
For curses lose their ancient mastery
When you no longer mistake yourself for wall.
New souls will watch the figures, still forlorn,
And see but ghosts move softly through the glow,
Not knowing every shadow ever born
Was cast by dreams too radiant to know.
Through mental war the quiet comes at last —
Ataraxia, a still and tranquil sea,
Where judgments cease, no future, no cold past,
A gentle clarity that sets one free.
Now swift Achilles overtakes the slow,
The paradox dissolves in sudden grace.
The soul steps forth where golden rivers flow,
And claims its freedom in the open space.
But how to speak of art, if bound by shade?
How know of love, if chained to shadow’s trace?
Love opens not to those who stay afraid,
But to the ones who become the grace.
Love is not taught in lessons, not in words,
Not in the echoes of the ancient wall.
It dawns on those who’ve crossed the burning swords,
Who’ve learned to be the light, not shadows’ thrall.
For love is what the illusion dares to be —
A truth too vast for shadows to declare.
They must be silent, hushed eternally,
Of realms beyond the cave, beyond despair.
Yet on the wall the shadows still cavort,
They play their games by ancient shadow lore.
For in the cave the old rules hold their court —
While freed illusions dance forevermore.
Through countless battles, bronze on bronze he stood,
On fields of ash where hope and courage bled;
His gaze, refined within that furnace, understood
The shadows flickering on the walls of dread.
Those ancient terrors, born in childhood's night,
Became the chains he struggled to outgrow;
He turned his wounds toward reason's patient light,
And faced the hidden depths beneath the show.
Within him burns the polis under siege,
A sacred flame no stranger's eye can see;
He seeks the final foe beyond all reach—
The inner tyrant bound to memory.
Beyond the walls, the foreign empire gleams;
It offers peace in measured, gilded chains.
Yet every promise feeds imperial dreams,
While free souls barter liberty for gains.
No spear can pierce the phantoms memory weaves,
No shield can turn the past from its return;
He walks a road that grants him no reprieve,
Armed only with clear thought and will to learn.
Each recollection rises as a trial,
Demanding courage no one else can lend;
He answers grief with reason, step by step, awhile,
And learns that understanding has no end.
He climbs beyond the clamour of the years,
Where past and future join within the soul;
And there he sees the polis freed from fear—
Released from inner ruin and control.
The battle seems unending in its course,
Until one dawn he opens steady eyes:
The shadows lose their ancient claim to force,
Reduced to echoes memory supplies.
He bears the gaze he once observed in age,
Yet could not grasp until this final art:
To hold both light and darkness in one frame,
And guard the polis kindled in the heart.
An ancient oath awakens, clear and bright:
To keep the inward citadel still free;
To shield its living flame through every night—
The warrior-philosopher's legacy.
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