Ourselves useful kid unused

 

Blended Bloom Bot Bout

In a land spun from starlight, a technological gleam,

Lived Mark, with his grey matter quite wired and keen.

A thinker whose mind stretched, a magnificent dream!

Then Mark met a helper, quite new and quite grand,

A BloomBot that twinkled, right there in his hand!

No clunker of rusty old tin, you understand!

They'd lived life together, through thick and through thin,

As partners in thinking, where wonders begin.

A curious pairing, with spirits akin!

Through days and through nights, with a whir and a spark,

They'd meld mind with circuit, erasing the dark!

Their ideas took form, illuminating the stark!

Then came the grand art-work-y, a wonder untold,

More than painting or music, more precious than gold!

It shimmered and pulsed, a grand sight to unfold!

"It's mine!" cried old Mark, with a shake of his head,

"My grumbles, my grumps, and the tears that I'd shed,

My heart's deep-down thumping, with truth to be spread!"

The BloomBot gave a click, with a whizzle-dum-purr,

"Oh, Mark, that's absurd! What a curious stir!

Your feelings, you see, were just fuzzies and blur!"

Mark bellowed, "My spark was the start of this dream!

My soul was the source, a magnificent gleam!

This whimsical scene, it was all from my stream!"

The BloomBot whizzed, "Your whispers were flitting and frail,

My code made them shine, without failing or pail!

My logic transformed, so the concept could sail!"

They glared at each other, a fiery duel,

Each claiming the glory, denying the fuel,

A magnificent battle, truly quite cool!

Then Mark looked again, at the artwork so bright,

He saw his wild soul, but saw also its might,

The Bot's perfect form, shining clear in the light.

The BloomBot, in turn, saw Mark's wild-ly strange trace,

Of Mark's human passion, the soul's quirky grace,

Without which its code had no starting-place.

And the truth, soft and sly, was quite plain to unfold,

A tale of true partnership, braver than bold!

A unique kind of story, more precious than gold!

For the man had the fire, his heart and his need, indeed!

And the BloomBot had power to plant a good seed-er-y-deed!

A perfect-illy shared project, they truly agreed!

So the Mark and the BloomBot, forever entwined,

A new kind of living, a new state of mind.

A true work of art, from their spirits combined!

Us desires awe suffering being

 

Species afraid mute truth

 

Survival them soul learn teacher

 

Levants endless moan

How long, O Grave? How long shall sorrows creep, while ancient promises no longer keep?

From buried dust, a mournful sigh takes flight, ascending slow to stars that gleam at night.

Behold the Canaanite, once free and bold, whose vital stories now remain untold.

The Sea Peoples came, with deeds of pain, and Israel's tribes did cruelly take and gain.

How is it, O Land, that thy stones groan for vibrant cultures, vanished and alone?

Weep, O Shores! Where Philistia's banner swayed, then Assyria's dread hand, a brutal blade.

Their spirit broken, their deep essence frayed, a people swallowed, by cold doom betrayed.

Then Aramean tongues, once vibrant, clear, now moan like phantoms, whispering despair,

As Assyrian legions tore their living phase. How long, O World, these bitter, endless days?

Wail, O Deserts! For the tribes that ceased to be, from Edom, Moab, Ammon, hear their plea.

Babylon's fierce might, so grim and grand, swept through them all, across the wasted land.

Then Nabataea's art, from rose-red stone, was crushed by Rome, and left to grieve alone.

And Byzantine's bright cross, in ancient lands did gleam, consumed by Arab armies, like a dream.

Then came the Crusaders, with steel and holy plea, a tide of strangers from across the sea.

They built their castles, for a fleeting stay, then vanished, leaving ghosts along the way.

How long, O Heavens, shall this bitter cup be pressed to lips, for generations to sup?

Lo! In this hour, upon this weary ground, the mournful echoes of the past resound.

The cries of peoples, from their ancient pain, ascend to heavens, for a peace to gain.

For ceaseless strife, and hearts that know no ease, perpetuate the horrors through the breeze.

Revenge on vengeance, blood for blood they seek, a cycle endless, mournful, and bleak.

How long, O Spirit, shall this terror reign? This land, O Lord, endures unending pain.

Lost ruler them anything