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In the dimly lit room, where shadows dance upon the walls like whispers of forgotten secrets, the Hands of Darkness find solace at the ebony and ivory keys of the piano. Their touch, gentle yet haunting, brings forth melodies that echo the depths of the night.
At times, the music they weave is as dark as the abyss, each note dripping with melancholy and longing. It resonates with the sorrowful souls wandering in the realms of twilight, a lullaby for the lost and the forsaken.
Yet, amidst the darkness, there lies a strange kind of solace. The haunting melodies wrap around the listener like a comforting shroud, offering a moment of respite from the chaos of the world. There's a strange beauty in the melancholy, a tranquility born from the depths of despair.
The Hands of Darkness move effortlessly across the keys, their music a symphony of shadows and whispers. Each note holds a story untold, a journey through the darkest corners of the soul.
At times, the music they weave is as dark as the abyss, each note dripping with melancholy and longing. It resonates with the sorrowful souls wandering in the realms of twilight, a lullaby for the lost and the forsaken.
Yet, amidst the darkness, there lies a strange kind of solace. The haunting melodies wrap around the listener like a comforting shroud, offering a moment of respite from the chaos of the world. There's a strange beauty in the melancholy, a tranquility born from the depths of despair.
The Hands of Darkness move effortlessly across the keys, their music a symphony of shadows and whispers. Each note holds a story untold, a journey through the darkest corners of the soul.
đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš & đđđ đđąđšđ„đąđ§ | đđąđ§đđđ« đšđ§ đđĄđ đđđ§đŻđđŹ | đđđ„đđ±đąđ§đ đđ„đđŹđŹđąđđđ„ đđźđŹđąđ đđšđ« đđđźđđČđąđ§đ & đđšđ«đ€
#sadviolinmusic #classicalsad #classicalpiano
In the dimly lit room, where shadows dance upon the walls like whispers of forgotten secrets, the Hands of Darkness find solace at the ebony and ivory keys of the piano. Their touch, gentle yet haunting, brings forth melodies that echo the depths of the night.
At times, the music they weave is as dark as the abyss, each note dripping with melancholy and longing. It resonates with the sorrowful souls wandering in the realms of twilight, a lullaby for the lost and the forsaken.
Yet, amidst the darkness, there lies a strange kind of solace. The haunting melodies wrap around the listener like a comforting shroud, offering a moment of respite from th...
In the dimly lit room, where shadows dance upon the walls like whispers of forgotten secrets, the Hands of Darkness find solace at the ebony and ivory keys of the piano. Their touch, gentle yet haunting, brings forth melodies that echo the depths of the night.
At times, the music they weave is as dark as the abyss, each note dripping with melancholy and longing. It resonates with the sorrowful souls wandering in the realms of twilight, a lullaby for the lost and the forsaken.
Yet, amidst the darkness, there lies a strange kind of solace. The haunting melodies wrap around the listener like a comforting shroud, offering a moment of respite from th...
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#sadpiano #sadviolin #ethereal In the dimly lit room, where shadows dance upon the walls like whispers of forgotten secrets, the Hands of Darkness find solace at the ebony and ivory keys of the piano. Their touch, gentle yet haunting, brings forth melodies that echo the depths of the night. At times, the music they weave is as dark as the abyss, each note dripping with melancholy and longing. I...
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#classicalsad #darkacademiaplaylist #sadviolin In the dimly lit room, where shadows dance upon the walls like whispers of forgotten secrets, the Hands of Darkness find solace at the ebony and ivory keys of the piano. Their touch, gentle yet haunting, brings forth melodies that echo the depths of the night. At times, the music they weave is as dark as the abyss, each note dripping with melanchol...
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#piano #darkacademiaplaylist #sadviolin In the dimly lit room, where shadows dance upon the walls like whispers of forgotten secrets, the Hands of Darkness find solace at the ebony and ivory keys of the piano. Their touch, gentle yet haunting, brings forth melodies that echo the depths of the night. At times, the music they weave is as dark as the abyss, each note dripping with melancholy and l...
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#sadviolinmusic #classicalsad #classicalpiano In the dimly lit room, where shadows dance upon the walls like whispers of forgotten secrets, the Hands of Darkness find solace at the ebony and ivory keys of the piano. Their touch, gentle yet haunting, brings forth melodies that echo the depths of the night. At times, the music they weave is as dark as the abyss, each note dripping with melancholy...
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ĐŃĐŸŃĐŒĐŸŃŃĐŸĐČ 1,2 ŃŃŃ.2 ĐŒĐ”ŃŃŃĐ° ĐœĐ°Đ·Đ°ĐŽ
đđđ«đ€ đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš, đđđ đđšđŹđđđ„đ đąđ đđąđšđ„đąđ§ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ | đđĄđ đđ§đđ«đ đČ đšđ đ đđšđ°đđ«đđźđ„ đđđŠđ©đąđ«đ
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ĐŃĐŸŃĐŒĐŸŃŃĐŸĐČ 1,8 ŃŃŃ.2 ĐŒĐ”ŃŃŃĐ° ĐœĐ°Đ·Đ°ĐŽ
đđđ«đ€ đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš, đđđ đđšđŹđđđ„đ đąđ đđąđšđ„đąđ§ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ | đđđ„đšđđČ đšđ đđ«đ«đđđ«đąđđŻđđđ„đ đđđČđŹ | đđđąđ§
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đđđđŹ
ĐŃĐŸŃĐŒĐŸŃŃĐŸĐČ 3,4 ŃŃŃ.2 ĐŒĐ”ŃŃŃĐ° ĐœĐ°Đ·Đ°ĐŽ
đđđ đđšđŹđđđ„đ đąđ đđąđšđ„đąđ§, đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ đđźđŹđąđ | đđđĄđđ«đđđ„ đđšđ§đ đšđ đ đđąđ«đđ§ | đđ°đš đ
đđđđŹ
đđđ«đ€ đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš, đđđ đđšđŹđđđ„đ đąđ đđąđšđ„đąđ§ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ đđźđŹđąđ | đđĄđ đđđ§đđđ«đđ« đđąđđĄđšđźđ đđđŠđšđ«đąđđŹ
ĐŃĐŸŃĐŒĐŸŃŃĐŸĐČ 4,7 ŃŃŃ.2 ĐŒĐ”ŃŃŃĐ° ĐœĐ°Đ·Đ°ĐŽ
đđđ«đ€ đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš, đđđ đđšđŹđđđ„đ đąđ đđąđšđ„đąđ§ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ đđźđŹđąđ | đđĄđ đđđ§đđđ«đđ« đđąđđĄđšđźđ đđđŠđšđ«đąđđŹ
đđđ đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš, đđąđšđ„đąđ§ & đđđ„đ„đš | đđđąđ§đđ«đšđ©đŹ, đđ«đšđ©đŹ đšđ đđđŠđšđ«đąđđŹ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ đđźđŹđąđ | đđźđđźđŠđ§
ĐŃĐŸŃĐŒĐŸŃŃĐŸĐČ 2,9 ŃŃŃ.2 ĐŒĐ”ŃŃŃĐ° ĐœĐ°Đ·Đ°ĐŽ
đđđ đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš, đđąđšđ„đąđ§ & đđđ„đ„đš | đđđąđ§đđ«đšđ©đŹ, đđ«đšđ©đŹ đšđ đđđŠđšđ«đąđđŹ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ đđźđŹđąđ | đđźđđźđŠđ§
đđšđ«đđ«đđąđđŹ đšđ đđđđ«đ§đąđđČ: đđĄđ đđźđ«đŹđ đšđ đđĄđ đ
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ĐŃĐŸŃĐŒĐŸŃŃĐŸĐČ 2,8 ŃŃŃ.2 ĐŒĐ”ŃŃŃĐ° ĐœĐ°Đ·Đ°ĐŽ
đđšđ«đđ«đđąđđŹ đšđ đđđđ«đ§đąđđČ: đđĄđ đđźđ«đŹđ đšđ đđĄđ đ
đšđźđ« đđąđŹđđđ«đŹ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ đđźđŹđąđ | đđČ đđĄđ đ
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đđđ«đ€ đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđ§đ đđđ đđąđđ§đš, đđąđšđ„đąđ§ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ đđźđŹđąđ | đđźđđźđŠđ§ đ°đĄđąđŹđ©đđ« đšđ đđđŻđđ§đŹ | đđđąđ§đđšđźđ§đđŹ
ĐŃĐŸŃĐŒĐŸŃŃĐŸĐČ 8 ŃŃŃ.2 ĐŒĐ”ŃŃŃĐ° ĐœĐ°Đ·Đ°ĐŽ
đđđ«đ€ đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđ§đ đđđ đđąđđ§đš, đđąđšđ„đąđ§ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ đđźđŹđąđ | đđźđđźđŠđ§ đ°đĄđąđŹđ©đđ« đšđ đđđŻđđ§đŹ | đđđąđ§đđšđźđ§đđŹ
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ĐŃĐŸŃĐŒĐŸŃŃĐŸĐČ 2,7 ŃŃŃ.2 ĐŒĐ”ŃŃŃĐ° ĐœĐ°Đ·Đ°ĐŽ
đđđ đđąđšđ„đąđ§, đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš | đđĄđ đđ§đŹđ©đšđ€đđ§ đđ«đšđŠđąđŹđ đšđ đđźđđźđŠđ§ | đđźđŹđąđ đđ„đđđ§đŹđąđ§đ đđĄđ đđąđ§đ đđ§đ đđšđźđ„
đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš đ°đąđđĄ đđđąđ§ đđšđźđ§đđŹ | đđđ„đđ±đąđ§đ đđźđŹđąđ đđš đđđźđđČ đšđ« đđšđ«đ€ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ | đđđąđ§ đđđ„đšđđČ
ĐŃĐŸŃĐŒĐŸŃŃĐŸĐČ 3,3 ŃŃŃ.2 ĐŒĐ”ŃŃŃĐ° ĐœĐ°Đ·Đ°ĐŽ
đđđ„đđ§đđĄđšđ„đąđ đđąđđ§đš đ°đąđđĄ đđđąđ§ đđšđźđ§đđŹ | đđđ„đđ±đąđ§đ đđźđŹđąđ đđš đđđźđđČ đšđ« đđšđ«đ€ | đđđ«đ€ đđđđđđŠđąđ | đđđąđ§ đđđ„đšđđČ
Excelente mĂșsica
Tu me manque
Mayotte aller de l eau et nĂ©cessaire đ lumain mĂ©rite d'ĂȘtre une Ă©vidence a considĂ©rer
Love this atmosphere â€
Prachtig â€â€â€
â€,,I want to see my brother. I only see him in dreams
PULCHRA IMAGINUM ET SONUM
Uâïžđïžđšïžđđ
â€đ„đŰčۧÙÙ ŰșÙ Ù۶ ۧÙÙ ŰłÙÙÙ ÙۧÙŰŹÙۧۥ... đ·âšâđš
đđąđ§đđđ« đšđ§ đđĄđ đđđ§đŻđđŹ In the heart of an ancient forest, where the air forever whispered with the cold sighs of winter, there stood an artistâs studio carved from time itself. A sanctuary of perfect order, it was the home of Alden Vexley, a man of singular purpose and profound precision. To those who knew of him-though few truly did-he was the Painter of Winters, a soul who had spent a lifetime capturing the melancholic beauty of snow-draped landscapes. The room was his kingdom, pristine and silent. Tall windows framed the eternal woods beyond, their skeletal branches woven against a sky the color of soft steel. Snow fell endlessly there, painting the world in infinite shades of white. Alden found great solace in that immutable rhythm, for winter was his muse, and he loved it as other men might love life itself. Each morning, long before the sun rose to blush the horizon, Alden would step into his studio, where the air smelled faintly of pinewood, turpentine, and order. The canvases were perfectly arranged-some leaning gracefully against the dark walls, others propped upright, whispering the pale ghosts of birch trees and silent rivers. The brushes lay in soldierly rows upon the great oak table, washed and dried, awaiting their summons. Not a speck of dust dared linger, not a misplaced item upset the roomâs austere beauty. Aldenâs devotion to cleanliness was as much a ritual as his painting; he could not create chaos in the act of birthing serenity. It was a sacred rule he had forged in his youth-never a sip of coffee or a taste of bread would pass his lips until the painting of the day was complete. The act, he believed, must stand apart. It was discipline that separated art from indulgence, purpose from whimsy. Today was no different. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, offering warmth to the corners of the room, though Alden paid it no mind. Before him, a blank canvas waited with quiet expectation, as though it too knew of his rituals. With careful deliberation, Alden began. He moved like a man entranced, his long, ink-stained fingers skimming across the palette with grace. The blues were chosen first-deep and muted, like the hour before dawn-then delicate grays and whites, each more ethereal than the last. The brushstrokes came in silence, save for the faint swish of bristles against canvas. Alden painted as though the forest outside flowed through his veins, as though the snow itself whispered its secrets into his ear. Every treeâs bough was kissed with frost, every shadow held the weight of winterâs stillness. His landscapes were not mere reproductions but windows to another world-a place where time paused, where footsteps were muffled and hearts beat slower. As the final stroke fell upon the canvas, Alden stepped back and exhaled a breath he hadnât realized he was holding. The winter he had painted was perfect, suspended in the delicate tension between stillness and life. He regarded it with a quiet satisfaction, his blue eyes reflecting the scene as though they too were pools of frozen light. The room, once imbued with the quiet hum of creation, now seemed to sigh in relief. Brushes were cleaned with reverence, the palette wiped free of paint, and the table tidied until it gleamed beneath the golden glow of the lamps. When order had been fully restored-as it always must be-Alden poured himself a cup of coffee, black as night and steaming faintly. He placed it upon the oak table and sat, the tall-backed chair groaning softly beneath him. The first sip was always the sweetest. It was the taste of completion, of a day fulfilled. Outside the window, snow continued its ceaseless descent, a symphony of white against the dusk-darkened world. Alden watched it fall, his heart calm and his mind empty for the first time since dawn. Tomorrow, another canvas would wait, another winter scene would demand to be painted-but tonight, he allowed himself this single indulgence, a quiet moment in a world of his own creation. It was enough.
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Such endless beauty...
I want a cup of hot chocolate with these words and then sail through a world of mystery and terrible beauty
Absolutely beautiful
ŰčۧÙÙ Ű§ŰźŰ±
@@Kokowsasby ÙŰčÙۧ Ùۧۯ ŰčۧÙÙ Ű«Ű§ÙÙ
@۱ÙÙ ÙÙÙÙŰŻ ŰȘŰłÙÙ Ù .. Ù۰ۧ Ù Ù Ű°ÙÙÙ
â€
So beautiful â€đ
The city was shadowed,but help is on the way.
đ„đč
â€đđȘ»
Excellent! Thank you for both creating this and sharing!
En encanta, lo relajante esđ€đ€đ€
Thank You
The sadness goes before and beyond this life !!!
I feel nostalgic from the past I was from the old generation when they used it âïžđ I feel nostalgic for the past to the point that I hated this harsh life Where everyone beside me left me alone
Depuis quelques temps, tu ne nous sort que des pepites !
đŒđŒđŒđŒ
My pen was never a fraud, but rather it was infected
A dangerous woman, lucky if you meet her and unlucky if you lose her
Don't look for a dose of hope here, I only have a drop for me
đą
â€â€â€â€â€â€â€â€
Although it contains a huge amount of sadness, it is an immortal masterpiece that will remain in memory... Thank you very much for this wonderful work
đŒđŒđŒđŒ
â€đ¶đŻđđâïžâ€ïž
âš
I will live forever, because I am from the time before memory, which is ETERNITY's own humming tune.âïž
Daughter of Flames, Mother of Shadows When the last light of day fades and the veil of night descends, I change. Beneath this velvet gown and the halo of soft firelight, something darker blooms within me, unfurling like the black petals of a poisoned rose. They call me a princess, yet I am nothing of the sort. I am a vessel for shadows, for regrets too sharp to bury, and for a hunger I dare not name. Winter grips the land beyond these stone walls, its icy fingers clawing at the castle windows. But here, beside the fire, I find solace. I watch the flames rise and fall, their golden dance mirroring the flicker of my own restless thoughts. Sometimes, I hum a tune-a melody older than the bricks of this ancient keep. It threads through my mind, weaving a bond with the warmth of the hearth, as if the fire alone can hold my unraveling spirit together. But the truth is, I was never kind. Once, in the brilliance of daylight, I wore the mask well-the mask of the dutiful daughter, the gracious lady of the court. I whispered pretty lies and smiled with a sweetness that could rot a saintâs soul. My hands, now pale and slender, were stained with the ruin of others. Words, you see, can be sharper than any blade, and mine were daggers tipped with venom. I wielded them carelessly, like a child playing with fire, until I saw what destruction truly meant. I sit here now, cloaked in the ashes of my sins. I wonder if the fire forgives me for the darkness it sees in my eyes. For when the night falls, the girl they think they know dissolves, leaving behind a creature born of silence and regret. Each night, the flame listens to my song-the same song that once lured hearts to break against the jagged rocks of my cruelty. I wonder-if the fire dies, will it take me with it? Will the shadows consume what little light remains in my soul? Or will I sit here forever, tethered to this throne of ruin, humming my sorrow into the embers until nothing of me is left but whispers and smoke?
Really wonderful
6:30
ŰąÙ Ùۧ ÙÙŰš ÙÙ Ű±Űš Ù۱ÙÙ ÙÙÙ ŰšŰčŰŻ ÙÙۧ ŰłÙۯۧ ŰłÙÙ Ű§ÙÙÙ
DE 200
I loved her so much
How I love this channel
â€
Very beautiful really amazing
Ù Ù ŰšÛŰŽŰȘ۱ ÙÙŰȘÙۧ ŰšÙ Ű§ÛÙ Ù ÙŰłÛÙÛ ŰČÛۚۧ ÚŻÙŰŽ Ù ÛŰŻÙ Ű±ÙŰ Ù Ű±Ű§ ŰšÙ ŰąŰłÙ Ű§ÙÙۧ Ù Ûۚ۱ۯâ ÙÙÙۚۧ ۧŰčŰȘÙۧۯ ŰŻŰ§Ű±Ù ŰŻÙÛŰ§Û ŰąŰłÙ Ű§ÙÙۧ ۧŰČ ŰČÙ ÛÙ ŰČÛۚۧ ŰȘŰ±Ù Ù Ű§ Ù۱ÚÙ Ù ÛŰźÙۧÙÛÙ ŰšŰ§ÛŰŻ ۯ۱ ŰąŰłÙ Ű§ÙÙۧ ŰŹŰłŰȘŰŹÙ Ú©ÙÛÙ ŰČÙ ÛÙ ÙÛۧÙŰȘ ŰŹŰšŰ±Ű§Ù ÙŰŻŰ§Ű±Ù Ù۱ ÚÙ ÙŰłŰȘ ۯ۱ ŰąŰłÙ Ű§Ù Ùۧ۳ŰȘ
Ù Ù ÙÙÙÙ Ű§ŰČ Ű§ŰČ Ű§ÛÙ Ù ÙŰłÛÙÛ ŰČÛۚۧ ÙÙÙ Ű§ÙŰčŰ§ŰŻÙ Ű§ŰłŰȘđđđșđșđđ
PĆekrĂĄsnĂ© đ€
But the passing of time is something that has been known since the beginning of time and Humanity has known this fact since the beginning. So there is no need to single out a certain city or place, because the ETERNAL Passing of Time is a valid reality for our entire Earth and the Universe. Thus we can confirm again that PASSING is ETERNAL
Thank you for your comment. In this story, I wanted to focus specifically on the city of Loryndell to explore the theme of time and its passing through a particular place. While it's true that the passage of time is a universal and eternal reality that affects all of existence, I aimed to highlight how it manifests within the life of this specific city. By doing so, I wanted to give a sense of how time leaves its mark in unique ways on both places and people. The city of Loryndell, in this case, serves as a symbol of the broader, inevitable flow of time. đč
Eternal is a long time,especially at the end.
@@GertCorbeels-pm3vd ETERNAL does not have the concept of TIME, so neither LONG TIME nor TIME END, it means TIMELESSNESS
But wasn't the singularity the perfection?It may have exsist for one second or eternal.No cause and no effect,time didn't exsist.The perfection.
â@@GertCorbeels-pm3vd Perfection is not framed in time, it is "frozen" in Eternity. If it lasted only a moment, it wasn't perfect either Thus, imperfection creates the cause-effect phenomenon
đđâđ¶đčđ»đ§đđđđ€đ€đ€đ€đ
Deep and profound, transporting me to another, better, more peaceful world.
â€â€â€â€Amazing
.ŰčŰŽ ۧÙŰșŰ±Ű§ŰšÙ ŰłÙÙۧŰȘ ۧÙÙ ŰŹŰŻ ۧÙŰčŰžÙÙ Ű§Ű”ŰšŰ ÙŰ°Űš Ù۟ۯۧŰč ÙŰ§ŰŽÙ ÙÙ Ű§ÙۧÙÙ Ű§ÙŰšŰčÙŰŻ ۧÙۧÙÙÙ Ű§Ù۳۱ۧۚ Ùۧ۔ۚŰŰȘ ŰłÙÙۧŰȘ ۧÙÙ ÙŰȘ ÙۧÙÙŰ§Ù Ű§ÙŰŻÙ Ű§Ű± ŰčÙÙ Ű§ÙŰŹÙ ÙŰč Ùۧۧ۳ŰȘŰ«Ùۧۥ ÙŰźŰ§ŰŻÙ Ű§Ù Ù Ű·ÙŰč ÙÙ ŰŹÙ ÙŰč ۧÙÙŰ”ÙÙ ÙۧÙ۟۱ÙÙ ÙۧÙŰ”ÙÙ ÙۧÙ۱ۚÙŰč ÙŰčŰžŰ§Ù ÙÙ ÙۧÙŰȘ ŰȘ۱ŰȘŰčŰŽ ÙÙ Ű§ÙÙŰšÙ۱ ۧÙŰŽŰȘۧۥ ۧÙÙ ŰŰȘŰ±Ù ÙۧÙŰźÙÙ ÙŰ§Ù ŰčÙÙ ŰŁŰšÙŰ§ŰšÙ ÙŰ”ÙŰȘÙÙ ÙŰ§Ù Ù۱ŰȘÙŰč ÙÙ Ű§ŰčÙÙ Ű§ÙŰłÙ Ű§ŰŠÙ ŰšÙۧێÙÙŰč ÙۧÙÙۧÙŰ© ÙÙÙ ÙŰ§ŰšÙ Ű±ŰŰš ÙÙۧÙŰŻÙŰč ÙÙŰ§Ù ÙÙŰ° ÙÙÙ ŰșÙ۱ ۱ۚ ۧÙŰłÙ ÙŰč .ÙÙ Ù Ű±ŰșÙ ŰłÙÙÙ Ű§ÙŰ”Ù ŰȘ ۧÙÙۧŰȘÙ ÙۧÙŰ۱ۚ ÙۧÙŰŻÙ Ű§Ű± ÙۧÙ۟۱ۧۚ ÙۧÙŰŹÙŰč ÙۧÙÙ ÙŰȘ ÙۧÙŰŰš ÙۧÙۧێÙŰ§Ù ÙۧÙŰ۳۱۩ ÙۧÙÙŰŻŰ§Ù Ű© ÙÙۧ۱ ۧÙÙ۱ۧÙÙ Ù ÙÙ ŰŽÙ ÙÙ±ÙۧÙÙ Ű§ÙŰŽÙۯۧۥ ÙۧÙŰ°ÙÙ Ű¶ŰÙۧ Ù Ù Ű§ŰŹÙ Ű§ÙÙŰ·Ù Ù Ű§ŰČÙÙۧ Űș۱ۚۧۥ ÙÙ ŰłŰ§ÙÙÙ ÙÙ Ű§Ù۷ۧÙÙÙ ÙۧÙŰ·Ű§Ù ŰșÙ۱ÙÙ ÙÙŰÙ ŰŻŰ§ŰŠÙ Ű§ ŰčÙÙ Ű§Ù۱ŰÙÙ ÙۧŰÙŰ§Ù ÙÙ Ű§Ű”ŰšŰ ŰźÙÙ ŰłŰȘۧ۱ ۧÙŰș۱ÙŰš Ù Ù Ű±ŰșÙ Ű¶ŰÙÙۧ ŰšÙ Ű§ÙÙۧۯÙۧ ÙÙ Ű§ÙÙۧ ÙÙÙŰł . ÙÙۧ ŰŽÙŰĄ ŰłÙÙ Ű§ÙŰźÙÙ ÙۧÙŰžÙŰ§Ù ÙۧÙÙÙÙ ÙۧÙ۳۱ۧۚ ŰŰȘÙ ÙÙ ŰčŰŽÙۧ ŰčÙÙ ŰŁŰ±Ű¶Ùۧ Ù ÙۧÙÙÙ Ű§ÙŰłÙÙÙ. ÙŰšŰč۶ ۧÙۧێÙۧۥ ÙۧŰȘÙŰłÙ۱ ÙÙۧ ŰȘÙŰŽŰč۱ ÙÙۧ ۧÙŰ§ŰšŰŻŰ§Ù ÙÙÙÙ Ű§ÙŰčÙÙ ÙۧÙÙÙ۱ ÙۧÙÙŰŹŰŻŰ§Ù ÙۧÙÙ ÙÙ Ű§ÙŰ”ÙÙۧ ŰŰȘÙ ÙÙ Ű§ÙۧŰÙŰ§Ù ŰčŰŽÙۧ ÙÙ ŰČÙ ÙÙ ŰšŰč۶ ۧÙÙۧ۳ ÙŰŁÙ۫۱ÙÙ ÙÙ ÙÙŰȘÙŰč ŰšŰčۯۧÙŰ© ۧÙŰłÙ Ű§ŰĄ ŰčÙÙ ÙŰ°Ù Ű§Ùۧ۱۶ ÙÙÙÙŰšÙÙ ŰźŰ§ÙÙŰ© Ù Ù Ű§ÙŰ”ŰŻÙ ÙۧÙۧÙ۳ۧÙÙŰ© ÙۧÙÙÙ Ű±ŰŹŰ§Ù Ű§ŰźŰ± ۧÙŰČÙ Ű§Ù ÙۧێۚÙÙ ÙÙÙ ÙۧÙÙ Ű§Ùۧ۱۶ ÙÙۧÙÙ Ű§ÙŰłÙ Ű§ŰĄ ÙÙ±ÙÙÙ Ù Ù ŰčۧÙÙ Ű«Ű§ÙÙ ŰźŰ§ÙÙۧ ۧÙÙŰłÙÙ ÙŰŽŰčÙŰšÙÙ ÙŰšÙ ÙÙ Ű§ÙÙۧ۳ ÙۧŰȘŰšÙۧ ÙÙÙ ÙÙ Ű§ÙŰÙۧ۩ Ù Ű§ŰšŰčŰŻ ۧÙÙ ÙŰȘ ÙÙÙ ŰŻŰ§ŰźÙ Ű§ÙۧÙÙۧÙÙ ÙŰšÙÙ ŰŹŰŻŰ±Ű§Ù Ű§ÙŰźÙÙ Űșۧ۱ÙÙÙ ÙÙ Ù ŰłŰȘÙÙŰč ۧÙŰŻÙ Ű§ŰĄ Ùۧۏ۳ۧۯÙÙ Ù Ù ŰČÙŰ© ۧÙÙ Ű§ÙۧێÙۧۥ ÙÙÙ ÙŰȘ۱ۯۯÙÙ ŰłÙ۱ۧŰȘ ۧÙÙ ÙŰȘÙ ÙÙÙ ÙŰȘŰ°Ù۱Ùۧ ۣۚۯۣ Ù Ù Ű±ŰșÙ ŰŻÙ Ű§ŰĄ ۧÙŰŽÙۯۧ ÙۧÙŰȘ۶ŰÙۧŰȘ Ù Űč Ù Ű±Ù۱ ۧÙÙÙŰȘ ÙۧÙۧÙŰ§Ù ÙۧÙŰČÙ Ù Ű§ÙÙŰŻ ŰłÙ±ÙŰ”ŰšŰ ÙÙ Ű·Ù Ű§ÙÙŰłÙŰ§Ù ÙŰčۧÙÙ Ű§ÙÙÙŰ§ŰŠÙ ÙۧŰÙŰ§Ù Ùۧ ÙŰ°Ù۱ÙۧŰȘÙۧ ŰłÙŰŰȘŰ±Ù ŰšÙۧ۱ ۧÙŰÙŰŻ Ù ÙÙ Ű§ŰŻŰ±Ű§ŰŹ ۧÙ۱ÙۧŰÙ ÙŰźÙۚ۩ Ű§Ù ÙÙۧ ÙÙ Ű§ÙŰÙۧ۩ ÙŰ§Ù ÙÙ ÙÙÙ ÙŰŹÙŰŻÙۧ ÙÙÙ Űą Ù Ű§ ŰčÙÙ Ű§Ű±Ű¶ ۧÙۧŰŰČŰ§Ù ÙۧÙۧŰÙŰ§Ù ÙۧÙŰ§ŰŹŰŻŰ§ŰŻÙ ÙۧÙŰ°Ù Ù Ű§ŰȘ Ù Ù Ù ÙۧÙÙÙ Ű§ÙŰłÙÙÙ Űșۧ۱ÙÙÙ ŰšŰ§ÙŰŻÙ ÙŰč Ù Ű§ÙŰŰČÙ ÙۧÙÙŰ±Ű ÙۧÙŰšÙŰ§ŰŠÙ ŰŰȘÙ ÙÙÙ Ű§ÙÙÙŰ§Ù Ű© ÙۧÙŰŰłŰ§ŰšÙ đđ ۧÙێۧŰč۱ : ŰŻÙÙŰŽ Ù±ÙŰłÙ