Latest from Yemenat
Yemenat
4 hours ago
- Entertainment
- Yemenat
Celebration of the Release of 'The Luminaries Guide' by Mustafa Rajeh
On Friday, July 25, 2025, a remarkable celebration took place at Mr. Faisal Saeed Farea's Forum in Sana'a to commemorate the release of the distinguished writer and journalist Mustafa Rajeh's first book, titled 'The Luminaries Guide in Yemeni Art and Literature.' This event was organized to reflect Mr. Faisal's commitment to enriching cultural sessions and facilitating discussions that deepen cultural awareness. The celebration was led by lawyer and writer Jalal Hindad, who opened the session with a welcoming address, emphasizing the book's significance in documenting cultural identity during a time of erosion. Poet and writer Karim Al-Hanaqi reviewed the book, noting that 'The Luminaries Guide' comprises 43 articles published over the past few years in various outlets. He expressed admiration for the author's style, characterized by keen insight and profound knowledge, asserting that the book embodies the essence of Yemeni intellectualism. During the event, polymath writer Alwan Al-Jilani emphasized that writing, as a human cultural endeavor, adeptly captures life's realities and reflects intellectual changes. He regarded Mustafa Rajeh's articles as an emotional guide that harmonizes with the trajectory of Yemeni music, literature, and culture. Mr. Amen Derhim, a prominent figure in the Yemeni cultural and artistic community, thanked Mustafa Rajeh for his achievement, praising the accuracy of his information and the depth of his analyses. He noted that he regularly follows Rajeh's writings, asserting that the book is a significant addition to the cultural landscape. Mohammed Shabeta, Secretary-General of the Yemeni Journalists' Syndicate, remarked that the publication of 'The Luminaries Guide' in these challenging times represents a vital contribution to the Yemeni cultural scene, where the voices of war are prominent. He commended the author's style, which combines journalistic sensitivity with literary precision. Artist and intellectual Amen Al Mad'haji added an artistic touch to the discussion, praising the book cover and the author's distinctive style in portraying artists. Additionally, Mr. Fouad Al-Sharjabi, director of the Yemeni House of Music, enriched the gathering with valuable insights about art in its various forms. Well-known journalist Ahmed Abdulrahman highlighted the book's significance in light of the current challenges facing Yemeni artistic and literary heritage. Writer and author Mohialdeen Saeed concluded his remarks by affirming that Mustafa Rajeh has delved into the depths of Yemeni culture and heritage, presenting new information and genuine Yemeni sentiments. The event was attended by several prominent academic and cultural figures, including Dr. Abduljalil Salam, Dr. Tawfiq Al-Qadasi, and engineer Mujeeb Abdullah Damaj, among others.
Yemenat
a day ago
- General
- Yemenat
Searching for the Future
I graduated from the military academy… but to where? Between aspiration and reality lies a vast expanse. My desire to enroll in university is overwhelming, yet my financial circumstances are bleak and burdensome. The salary I received during my time at the academy will soon come to an abrupt end, and I have neither saved for the future nor am I in need. What little I earned was spent almost immediately, as if a relentless pursuer were after it, making it vanish before I could grasp it. I spent some, assisted others, and lent money without expecting repayment, often refusing to reclaim what I had lent. There is a cost to your humanity that must be paid, as the absence of money diminishes your independence and infringes upon your freedom. Your lack can become a source of exploitation by those who possess wealth and withhold it from you. Moreover, money can also pose a dilemma that prevents you from achieving even your most modest dreams and wishes, or at the very least, it delays their realization. As the writer and personal development speaker Robert Ashton said, 'Comparing your monthly expenses to your income will reveal the true extent to which money stands as an obstacle before you.' What then of my situation, when I am left empty-handed and devoid of resources to stave off hunger? Even if I were to find a solution to this dilemma, or most of it, I would still remain in need, with diminished independence and freedom. Thus, I chose to postpone my dream of attending university and to continue my service in the military, as this would grant me the opportunity to fulfill my aspiration for higher education, albeit after two years or more. This is how I viewed the matter, or so I calculated. My graduation from the military academy took place on September 1, 1983. I chose to join the Unity Brigade, whose camp is located in the province of Abyan, as it was the best opportunity available to me. Most of the brigade's personnel and officers came from the north to the south, following Abdullah Abdulalam. Joining any other unit was left to chance, which could have cast me away to some distant island or desert, making my pursuit of higher education significantly more challenging. The likelihood of receiving approval for my study leave would have been even slimmer. According to the prevailing laws and regulations, I was required to serve at least two years in the military after graduation before I could dedicate myself to university studies and receive a salary to support my education. The brigade's camp was situated near the provincial capital, Zinjibar. As I mentioned, many of its members and officers hailed from the north. The brigade was commanded by Colonel Abdullah Mansour, a man with a fierce countenance, whose smile revealed sharp features and who belonged to Abyan. I felt a sense of unease whenever I saw him, while he treated my colleague, Sanad al-Rahwa, with kindness and respect. The brigade's chief of staff, Abdulwahid, also from the north, was more capable of leadership than Mansour, yet he often avoided displaying strength before the commander and was largely passive. Conversely, the brigade's political deputy, Captain Fat'h from Abyan, inspired in me a sense of fondness and satisfaction. He showed genuine concern for me and treated me with attention. In the Unity Brigade, I was assigned as the commander of the first platoon in the brigade's reconnaissance company. First Lieutenant Mohammed al-Hayani, a graduate of the eighth batch from the north, commanded the second platoon, while Second Lieutenant Sanad Al-Rahwa from Abyan, a graduate of the tenth batch, led the third platoon. Meanwhile, Abdu Qaid Al Kuhaly, the commander of the reconnaissance company, came from the northern province of Ibb. After a year, a new officer was added to the company—Lieutenant Alwan, also from the north, a graduate of the eleventh military academy batch. The non-commissioned officers in the company were all from the north. Among us officers in the reconnaissance company, there was a spirit of respect, harmony, and understanding as colleagues, and with the soldiers and non-commissioned officers, we acted as leaders and comrades-in-arms, without compromising on discipline, duties, or the tasks assigned to us.
Yemenat
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yemenat
At the Dance Hall
In 'Volga Grad,' we also ventured into the dance hall, accompanied by the esteemed Russian general assigned to us. This entertainment might have been an unexpected addition to our scheduled visit. The dance hall spanned two floors: the upper floor was more expensive, offering superior service, and its patrons exuded a sense of decorum and sophistication. In contrast, the lower floor was frequented by teenagers and young adults. After spending some time on the upper floor, I felt shackled and restrained. It was as if my freedom was suffocating. The formality I was compelled to adopt weighed heavily on me, and I began to feel boredom and monotony creeping in. I didn't want to remain a mere observer, like a statue or a mummified man stuck on the chair. I yearned to seize those beautiful moments rather than let them slip away under the guise of decorum and pretentiousness. I requested permission from the general to descend to the lower floor. There, a vibrant chaos of life awaited me. The dance was astonishingly exhilarating. After some hesitation, and perhaps some discontent from an official, I was granted permission, although I was cautioned to remain aware of my surroundings and to guard my money, as thefts occasionally occurred there. He reminded me not to linger. I descended to the lower floor, eager to dance with a girl. What once seemed a distant dream was now within reach. In 'Volga Grad,' the women were beautiful, and the girls even more so. I wanted to steal half an hour—or even just a few minutes—of their time. Each minute here felt dense, equivalent to the lost opportunities of my squandered life. Oh, the sorrow of my wasted years! I wanted to shout: Time, pause for a moment! I want to dance with a girl until I am intoxicated. Dancing grants the spirit a realm of joy and happiness. How tragic it is for those who do not dance… and how tragic for me, I mused. For the first time, I felt an emptiness within me, a cosmic void larger than the galaxy. I yearned to unload this burden of emptiness and dance until I soared high among the distant stars. I wanted to dance until I was dizzy, to compensate for worlds that had eluded my dreams and confessions. A wild desire surged within me to liberate my soul from chains heavier than iron. I wished to unleash my spirit, even if just for a fleeting moment, to soar in the vastness of the horizon and the expansive sky. That day, the sky was clear. I lived through great suffering, enduring much deprivation that shadowed my weary, burdened life. I came from a land where many elders still forbid singing and dancing, denying us joy and celebration. They are so rigid that they fit Nietzsche's description of a 'wretched and sickly kind… a herd that gazes malignantly upon life, their eyes filled with malice for this earth… Their feet are heavy, and their hearts suffocate in humidity… How can the earth be light for such a type?' I spoke to myself as I absorbed the scene before me: I, who was buried in shyness, must not waste these moments that may never return. Life is far too short, and I do not want to regret the youthful days that slipped away, nor squander these life-soaked moments. The world here sings, dances, and lives fully in every dimension. Beautiful moments in every sense! I, bound by iron and fire, have wasted my dearest years, and what remains of them drifts into oblivion. I felt a profound loneliness and estrangement at the table, like an orphan missing all affection. An endless internal void surrounded me, while joy overflowed around me. Regret settled in my heart for what had passed, occupying my corridors and corners. My disappointments felt like a black hole, vast enough to swallow all the world's failures. I sensed my grand hopes withering, each day adding to the desolation, as my life faded without acknowledging its modest aspirations. Black holes devoured my hopes and dreams, and my existence wept like a young artist, wounded and sorrowful. Time passed without my having danced with a girl. I was tormented, practicing the madness of dance to the rhythm of my aching love. I came from a land burdened by darkness, where shame loomed like mountains. Who could lift the weight of age-old burdens from my chest? In my homeland, the call for singing and dancing is condemned as an invitation to vice and depravity. The harshness of repression here deserves punishment. Yet, alas, I do not know how to dance; I have never learned. All I know is to chew on my losses and lament the days that have slipped away. In the courtyard, my friend Faisal Al-Khudairy was inspired by dance, and his companions excelled in its various forms—Lahji, Zubairi, Dhalae, and military dances, among others. As for me, my shyness was my greatest hindrance, and my rare attempts merely confirmed my dismal failure, despite the love and passion I harbored within. Jalal Al-Din Al Rumi said, 'Without love, all music is noise… all worship is a burden.' The music was present here, and the dance was available. What remained was the missing piece to uplift the spirit—a moment that could seize all memory. The girls of 'Volga Grad' were beautiful, possessing something unique—a charm and grace overflowing with magic and beauty. Life radiated from their faces, a brilliance and elegance that I could only envy. Meanwhile, at the table, I was consumed by estrangement and deprivation. I squeezed my sorrow, twisting in patience, shyness, and longing, held back from what I desired. My struggle was not only with my shyness and the heavy burden of embarrassment weighing on my shoulders but also with the Russian language, of which I understood not a single letter. I spoke to myself in the absence of all my friends: I would try to muster my courage and gather my bravery to ask a girl to dance with me. Yet the language stood as an insurmountable barrier preventing me from conveying my feelings and desires. I longed to dance with that enchanting beauty until I reached the heights of madness. Since I had not learned to dance, I would let the rhythm of the music guide my steps as best as I could. I wanted to hold that beauty close to my yearning heart, freeing my trapped emotions from their rusty walls. I desired that girl to soothe the turmoil beneath my ribs, to extinguish the flames of love that burned within my veins. I envisioned a girl's hand gently embracing me, a tender hand encouraging me to take a leap, patting my shoulder, which felt so heavy. I yearned to swim in her orbit until I became dizzy and melted into her embrace like a comet on fire. I tried to summon my courage to ask a girl to dance with me. I attempted to recall the few Russian words I had gathered from my colleagues. A Russian word here, another there—I tried to piece them into a sentence or phrase that expressed my request: 'Excuse me… could you dance with me?' What a significant plea! I prayed for the heavens to respond, but they did not… I resolved to dance with one of them. I touched her shoulder with my trembling fingers to catch her attention, hoping she would turn to me, even just partially. She turned toward me with surprise and wonder. She spoke to me in words I could not understand. I challenged my shyness and attempted to convey my request in Russian: 'Excuse me… could you dance with me?' I do not know what happened! As soon as I uttered my request, she and her friends erupted in laughter. I was bewildered! I had no idea what I had done! Why were they laughing? My request should have been familiar enough that she could decline, and I would understand and appreciate her refusal. I could even grasp it from her demeanor, even if I didn't understand her words. But to laugh and include her friends in that laughter was utterly unexpected. When I tried to reiterate my request, I found myself unable to repeat it. I felt like someone climbing a steep mountain, unaccustomed to looking down from its height—how could I ascend? I felt dizzy as I struggled to recall what I had said. Words slipped away, shifted, and transformed into something entirely different. My tongue stumbled on the fourth attempt, failing to convey the meaning I had intended, leaving me utterly lost in my speech. They conversed among themselves, some laughing, others smiling, realizing I came from a faraway land and was a stranger. My face turned a deep shade of crimson from embarrassment, and I understood nothing of the conversation. I was unsure how to manage my blunder! How could I escape the trap I had inadvertently set for myself? Then a lifeline appeared: the English word 'sorry,' which I uttered as I retreated, cursing myself and lamenting my misfortune, dragging the tail of my disappointment back to the table. After a moment, one of my colleagues descended from the upper floor and informed me that the Russian general was asking for me and wanted me immediately. At that moment, it was my rescue from a potentially prolonged embarrassment, especially since smiles and glances had not ceased while I was sinking in humiliation. I returned to my seat on the upper floor, dragging my disappointment and defeat with me. One of them asked what had transpired. I recounted the story, and he laughed, saying, 'You didn't ask her to dance; you asked her to get in the car with you!' I laughed at myself and my situation, my alienation, until I felt a bit light-headed.
Yemenat
3 days ago
- Politics
- Yemenat
Volgograd
Our second destination, according to the itinerary, was the city of 'Volgograd,' located over a thousand kilometers from the capital, Moscow. The name 'Stalingrad' became widely known during World War II, as it witnessed some of the most significant battles, lasting approximately six months according to various sources. The human casualties reached around two million, leading some to classify it as one of the bloodiest battles in the history of warfare. It is essential, from a contrasting perspective, to highlight some of the horrors of those wars and the catastrophic results they leave behind. During World War II, the United States dropped two atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of 'Hiroshima' and 'Nagasaki,' resulting in an immediate death toll of over 120,000, with more than double that number succumbing later to the effects of nuclear radiation, not to mention the injured. Most of the victims were civilians, and over 90% of the buildings and infrastructure in both cities were destroyed. Wars are terrifying and grotesque in ways that surpass imagination, and sometimes even perception. A Japanese woman who survived one of the nuclear explosions recounted her experience: 'I was twelve years old… I saw a flash like lightning, or what seemed like tens of thousands of lightning strikes lighting up at once, followed by a tremendous explosion. Suddenly, darkness enveloped the place. When I regained consciousness, I found my hair wilted, my clothes torn, my skin peeling off my body, my flesh exposed, and my bones visible. Everyone was suffering from severe burns, crying and screaming, wandering like a procession of ghosts. Our city was cloaked in utter darkness after it had just been alive.' (Source: Wikipedia) * * * In this context, we can take a moment to raise an objective critique with an ethical and humanitarian dimension concerning wars, including the conflict we are experiencing here in Yemen. It is one of the dirty wars we endure while the world's conscience remains unmoved, failing to act seriously to stop it, even though it could have prevented it from occurring in the first place. We pause here before the questions raised by Dostoevsky's novel 'Crime and Punishment': Why do we condemn the miserable student who kills the usurer in the narrative, yet not condemn the leader who sends his soldiers to death for the sake of his own glory? Why does Napoleon have the right to kill, and America the right to drop nuclear bombs, while Raskolnikov is not permitted to kill the usurer, who with her wealth could free him—and perhaps many others—from poverty? Why do we find ourselves inclined, while reading the novel, to side with Raskolnikov, the murderer of the usurer, urging him to surrender himself for justice and moral reasons? We hear the call: 'Awake… rise this very moment, stand at the crossroads, and bow… kiss the earth you have defiled. Then, kneel before the world on all fours, and proclaim loudly to everyone… Yes, yes, I have killed.' Yet, we do not demand that those who have slaughtered thousands, hundreds of thousands, and millions do the same as Raskolnikov! Why do we advocate for Raskolnikov's costly penance through hard labor for the rest of his life, while refraining from demanding punishment for those who have driven countless human beings into the hell of wars, death, and famine? What about those who have destroyed their own peoples, impoverished them, or oppressed them for ideological reasons, believing they possess absolute truth, or claiming they are the rightful owners of justice, with their actions deemed legitimate and beyond reproach? What of those who orchestrated wars, nurtured them out of greed, vengeance, or the desire for glory, or to reclaim lost glory? These questions are not intended to justify crime in any form, but rather to inquire: Why this profound absence of justice? Why does justice not reach the grand criminals as it does the lesser ones? What we need is justice for all. We require justice that addresses the major criminals before the minor ones, to deter crime and limit the atrocities being committed, ensuring that the scales and standards of justice we seek remain intact. In this regard, we can also speak of the genocide of the Native Americans, the indigenous peoples of America, and the subjugation of those who remain. We can discuss the war crimes committed by the United States in Vietnam, Iraq, and elsewhere, as well as the war crimes perpetrated by the French in Algeria and the Turks against the Armenians. All such wars involve perpetrators who refuse to compensate those nations or even apologize for the horrific wars these countries have waged against them. * * * Returning to the city we visited, awarded the title 'Hero City,' it was included in our itinerary due to its significant military history during World War II, as it marked a turning point in the war, altering the balance in favor of the Soviet Union. 'Volgograd' is its old name, changed in 1925 to 'Stalingrad.' After Stalin's death and the decline of 'Stalinism,' as labeled by his successor Nikita Khrushchev, the city reverted to its original name 'Volgograd,' closely associated with the Volga River, stretching along the right bank of the river for 30 kilometers Oh my God… What is that I see in the distance?! Who is this woman whose head touches the sky, wielding a sword against the heavens? What is her story? Which artist crafted this masterpiece? How did he accomplish it? And how long did it take to achieve this magnificent form we behold? The first thing that captivates you upon arriving at the outskirts of the city is the grand memorial visible from afar—a statue of a woman brandishing a sword, known as 'Motherland,' perched on a high hill. It stands as a towering figure, overlooking the city with majesty, dignity, and valor. At that time, this statue was the tallest sculpture in the world, reaching a height of 85 meters, erected in memory of the victims of the Battle of Stalingrad, fought between the Soviet Union and Germany in 1942 and 1943. The statue of the woman holding the sword became a symbol of the city. Among the city's landmarks is what is known as the 'Celestial Sphere,' along with memorials, statues, museums, theaters, concert halls, and artworks. It is also home to factories, facilities, and urban development, as well as the Volga River, the largest and most abundant river in all of Europe. The name 'Volga,' according to sources, means 'river of the east,' a title bestowed by the river basin's inhabitants since ancient times, stretching over 3,500 kilometers. As for 'grad,' associated with the river's name, it means 'city.' * * * Under the Celestial Sphere, we took our seats. The lights were dimmed… An extraordinary phenomenon transported us to a realm of wonder and amazement. I forgot I was seated in a chair; I forgot who I was and where I came from! I felt as if I were swimming in space, like a star, a planet, or an astronaut. I became lost in the cosmos, disoriented by the vastness around me, until I lost my sense of self and the familiar directions of east, west, north, and south. Everything here revolved… spinning around me until I felt dizzy. An entire hour was spent soaring among stars, planets, galaxies, and universes—a cosmic knowledge that I shall remember for the rest of my days. * * * We visited the Panorama Museum, which depicts the 'Battle of Stalingrad' during World War II, showcasing a summary of resilience and valor, and the glory of victory. Amid the many epics and heroics captured in photographs, statues, and remnants of war, what caught my eye were the impressive portraits of the Allied leaders—Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin. These were the victorious heads of state who gathered post-war to divide the world among themselves. The world became a dominion for the victors; territories were laid out on the table as spoils of war and influence, igniting a new kind of struggle among them—a Cold War that lasted for decades. Many nations paid heavy and costly prices, and some continue to pay for the victors even to this day. Even many 'deceived' communist parties in European countries like Britain and France were shocked by the results of this division, stunned to feel abandoned, realizing that the spoils of war were shared among the victors. It was jarring to see great principles reduced to mere empty words when it came to plunder. The reality was starkly different, as the world was carved up among the victors of this catastrophic and horrific war against the peoples of the earth. We also visited the remnants of a building known as 'Pavlov's House,' which witnessed an extraordinary and legendary resistance against the occupiers. A bastion of defenders stood valiantly against the invaders, engaging in fierce battles for control. Ultimately, those who held out triumphed, and the building still retains many of its walls that narrate the legend of resistance and resilience of this heroic city—a scene reflecting the ferocity of war and the bravery of its defenders.
Yemenat
5 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yemenat
The Houris of Paradise
I have never entered a place like this before… It is the circus—an aura of magnificence and splendor. The architectural design is dazzling, adorned with decorative touches and other elements that make you feel, amidst the spectacle, that you are at the very center of a grand universe. For the first time, I witnessed performances that resembled fantasy… What was once impossible became a reality before my eyes, what was distant became within reach, and the farthest was just a stone's throw away. It was the first time I saw the houris of paradise up close, without any signs saying 'Keep Out.' Astonishment engulfed me from the very first moment, holding me captive for two uninterrupted hours. Every detail here captivates you until the last moment… Here is God calling you instead of you calling Him… Here is God who loves beauty, and here, poetry holds its prominent place and presence: 'You are beautiful, and you love beauty; How is it, then, that your servants do not cherish it?' I beheld the houris of paradise with my own eyes, just as that dervish saw his Lord… God in His utmost beauty… In His presence gather His lovers and beloveds—Jalal Al Deen Al- Rumi and the kingdom of love, the miracle-worker Shams Al-Tabrizi, the Imam of Sufism Ahmed Ibn Alwan, the Sultan of Lovers Ibn Al-Farid, the pioneer of mysticism Al-Husayn Ibn Mansur Al-Hallaj, and the great Sheikh Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi, along with the righteous and reformers seeking God through love, life, and beauty. Beauty crowds this place, and you become a part of it… I felt as if I were in the very heart of this universe, the mother of miracles… My gaze wandered throughout the space… I sensed that the cosmos surrounded me from every direction… Oh God, what is this beauty!! Wonder resides here, and the captivating beauty calls you to invoke the Lord of the Worlds and His forgiveness. Here, God reveals Himself to me more beautifully than I ever imagined… Astonishment carries me on its wings, enveloping me in every direction… I blend into the scenes I behold, and I can no longer distinguish between the east and the west. Every point in this place could simultaneously be east and west… The compass here is broken and does not work… Only the compass of beauty seizes the viewer's consciousness, operating with efficiency and precision. A dome gathers the scattered directions like a cosmic lens… As I gaze intently at the houri of the skies flying through the space, I struggle to collect my senses, which seem to soar with her. I reach a state of ecstasy where I can no longer distinguish between the heights and depths of this place. My eyes fixate on the waist of another enchanting figure, and the rings spin around her, becoming grander than the rings of Saturn. I, along with my rapture, become one of her circles, circling around her waist. A dream and a knowledge that leaves me dizzy. Everything here is enchanting, harmonious, and captivating… The music, the movement, the lights, the makeup, and the stories painted by the acrobats… The sound effects complete each other… Everything sparkles with brilliance, magic, beauty, and lightness. Precision and artistry blend seamlessly with endless wonder. There are diverse circus performances, some dancing and thrilling, others acrobatic, juggling twenty eggs and stones. Young men and women, professionals at the peak of their craft, present what they have mastered and what they have creatively achieved. It's as if the Creator fashioned them from a more supple material than mere dust. Everybody here molds itself as desired, dazzling you and stealing away the independence you always cherish within. Bodies intertwine like a dough of resin, and your gaze wanders to the point of losing distinction between hair and the soles of feet. Youthful figures present scenes that drown you in astonishment… Bodies here function like spindles, others form like dough, and some fold like ropes, shaped and tied as their owners wish. In every performance, you witness a miracle, followed by a storm of warm applause, great joy, and soaring spirits. It's not just our hands clapping; our hearts and souls join in, spreading throughout the cosmos of this place. Young men and women, in the bloom of youth, perform mesmerizing acts that transform the hall of your heart into a beautiful exhibition space. A lightness unmatched by sight, flexibility that forms without restraint. The moving spots of light dance with the protagonist of the show here and there. Professionals to the point of genius, each delights you with their unique performance—houris soaring to the heights of the stage, returning safe and sound. They fly without wings, in a space too small for a bird. Gymnastic leaps, animal taming, walking the tightrope, and performing on it… Here, the impossible is present. The tamers enter the arena with the grace of a breeze and the surprise of astonishment, leading the beasts into the space, tamed and docile, as if fate has befriended them and brought them to the threshold of humanity. Each group enters according to their designated segment of the show. A performance for lions, another for tigers, a third for elephants, and many more… Each performs according to the meticulously scheduled program. The wonder and amazement follow one another, as does the focus… Here, not a second escapes you, and you don't regret losing it in vain. No regrets here, no biting of fingers… Regret only arises when you remember your wasted time, the many days that passed in vain without return or benefit.
