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In the hush of dawn, where the world exhales and the horizon trembles with light, there is a thread—soft as a whisper, strong as time. It weaves through the dew on a spider’s web, the laugh of a child chasing dawn’s first rays, the sigh of an elder tracing wrinkles like rivers on her skin. This thread is not seen but felt, a pulse that hums beneath the ordinary, binding stone to star, heart to heart, moment to eternity. It is not a voice from above, nor a path carved in stone, but a guidance that flows—quiet, unyielding, eternal.
Feel it in the pause before a storm, when the air holds its breath and the earth seems to listen. Taste it in the salt of a tear, shared across oceans by strangers who dream the same dreams. Hear it in the wind’s song, carrying seeds to soils unknown, whispering tales of roots entwined beneath the world’s skin. This thread does not demand; it invites. It asks you to stand in a marketplace, where voices braid into a chorus—vendors, poets, lovers, thieves—each a note in a melody older than names. It asks you to kneel by a river, where water mirrors the sky’s questions, its ripples a hymn to journeys uncharted.
We are not apart from this thread, nor it from us. The hand that cradles a seed is the hand that cradles the cosmos; the eye that meets another’s is the eye that sees the infinite. A dancer spins in a desert, her feet stirring dust that once was mountains. A coder pauses, her screen dim, as a sparrow’s flight sparks a truth no code can hold. A sailor trusts the sea’s swell, his helm guided by a rhythm deeper than charts. To surrender to this thread is not to lose yourself but to find yourself—woven into the laughter of children, the silence of stars, the breath of forests exhaling life.
Yet the world is loud, its clamour a veil that hides the thread’s shimmer. Cities pulse with haste, screens flicker with demands, and fear bids us to cling to walls we’ve built. But pause. Breathe. The thread hums still—in the glance of a stranger, the fall of a leaf, the quiet of your own heart. It asks only that you listen, that you let its rhythm carry you, not to answers but to questions, not to endings but to beginnings.
This thread is yours, mine, ours—a pulse that joins us to the eternal now, where every step is a dance, every voice a note, every life a weave in the tapestry of being. Take it, share it, let it grow. For in its shimmer, we are one—forever unfolding, forever becoming, forever bound by the light that holds us all. This thread leads us deeper, into a canticle where the pulse of existence sings.
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In the tender pause of twilight, where the world holds its breath and the sky blushes with the memory of day, there is a moment so delicate it seems to quiver on the edge of being. The air hums, not with sound but with presence—a pulse that stirs the leaves, brushes the skin, and lingers in the spaces between thoughts. Grasses bend gently, their tips catching the last embers of light, each blade a silent witness to a rhythm older than time. A distant river murmurs, its voice a braid of rain and stone, weaving through reeds that sway like dancers in a reverie. Pines sigh, their needles threading the wind’s secrets, while the earth exhales a scent of moss, damp loam, and forgotten springs, cool and yielding beneath bare feet. The bark of an ancient oak catches the fading glow, its rough grain a map of centuries, while dew gathers on clover, each drop a prism of dusk’s last hues. Above, the first stars pierce the velvet dusk, their glow a whisper from eons past, each a spark in a tapestry that cradles the night. A cricket’s chirp rises, tentative, answered by an owl’s soft hoot, joined by the rustle of a fox through underbrush, the flutter of moths against the fading light, the distant howl of a wolf echoing across hills. Shadows pool in hollows, their edges softening like a sigh, while the breeze carries the faint tang of wood smoke, a memory of hearths far off, mingling with the sharp bite of pine and the sweet decay of fallen leaves.
This is no ordinary stillness; it is a threshold, a shimmering chord resonating through the fabric of existence, parting a veil to reveal a glimpse of something vast, something sublime. Not a voice from on high, not a deity’s decree, but a guidance woven into the marrow of the cosmos—a silent pulse flowing through root and star, heartbeat and horizon, asking nothing but to be felt. What is this divine guidance, this unseen tide that moves without name or form? It is the shiver of recognition in a stranger’s gaze, the weight of a pebble smoothed by forgotten currents, the spark of a thought flaring unbidden in the dark. It is not apart from us, but within us, around us, through us—a rhythm joining the finite to the infinite, the moment to eternity. The twilight deepens, and a deer steps into a clearing, its eyes catching the moon’s first sliver, its breath a quiet note in the night’s unfolding song. The river’s murmur grows, carrying tales of snowmelt from distant peaks, of silt cradling minnows in its depths, of willows dipping roots to drink. A bat spirals overhead, its wings slicing silence, its path a thread in the dusk’s quiet weave. Fireflies flicker, their pulses a dance that joins the stars’ steady glow, each blink a question answered by the night’s embrace.
This chord, this guidance, is the world’s heartbeat, felt in the pause before thunder, the stillness after a child’s laughter, the silence where questions bloom without need for answers. To stand here, where the ordinary brushes the sublime, is to sense a unity beyond grasp—a conversation between earth and sky, self and cosmos, woven through every breath, every glance, every fleeting wonder. The sublime is not a place but a state, a dialogue where human perception meets the vastness of being. A heron lifts from the riverbank, its wings a slow drumbeat against the air, its flight a question answered by the water’s ripple. The stars shift, their patterns a script written in light, read by nomads and poets across millennia. A wolf’s howl rises, its timbre a thread joining forest to moon, instinct to eternity. This guidance is not a command but a presence, humming in the veins of leaves, in the arc of a lover’s smile, in the quiet of a mind at rest. It asks us to pause, to feel the earth’s steady breath, to hear the wind’s tales of journeys beyond sight. The moon climbs, its silver pooling on the river, a mirror for thoughts unspoken, dreams unformed. In this twilight, where shadows merge with light, we stand at the chord’s edge, invited to listen—not with ears, but with the quiet of our being—to a song that has always been, always will be, and always is. The world is not a stage but a chorus—cricket and owl, river and star, you and I—each note a thread in a melody stretching beyond time, into the heart of the infinite.
To speak of this guidance is to tread lightly, for it slips through words like mist through dawn, defying definition’s grasp. It is not a map drawn in ink, nor a doctrine etched in stone, but a shimmer dancing across existence, now here, now gone, yet ever-present. Picture an ocean, its waves rolling across boundless depths, carrying the laughter of monsoons, the secrets of mountains, the dreams of coral reefs pulsing with life. This ocean does not command the shore to yield; it flows, and the world shapes itself around its passage. So too does this guidance move—through the arc of a swallow’s dive, the pause before a storyteller’s tale unfolds in a moonlit souk, the moment a star’s light, born in creation’s furnace, reaches a stargazer’s eye. The stars multiply, each a knot in a tapestry older than memory, shining not for themselves but for the night that holds them, for the eyes that meet their gaze, for the dreams they spark in hearts unknown. In a Polynesian lagoon, a fisherman casts his line, his hands tracing a rhythm binding him to the sea’s tides, to the moon pulling waves across the earth. A child’s laughter echoes from a distant meadow, its joy joining the river’s song, the wind’s sigh, the stars’ glow. A herder in the Andes kneels to drink from a stream, his lips touching water journeyed through cloud and stone, his gratitude a note in the mountain’s silent hymn. A poet in a Delhi attic scribbles by lamplight, her words weaving the city’s clamour into a verse that joins the Ganges’ flow. This is the shimmering chord’s first whisper: that nothing exists alone, that every moment is a conversation, every breath a verse in a poem without end. Beyond this chord, the world is not fragments but a cosmic symphony, its notes bound by a pulse asking only to be felt.
The self, that cherished citadel of memory and desire, is the first veil to part. We walk believing we are islands, each a sovereign realm of thought and will, distinct from the sea that surrounds us. Yet pause, and consider: the breath you draw is not yours alone. It is a gift of forests exhaling across continents, of oceans whispering tides, of countless lungs sharing air through ages uncounted. The hand touching a stone feels not just its weight but the echo of ancient seas that shaped it, the fire of stars forging its elements. In a Siberian taiga, a shaman drums, her trance weaving her spirit with the birch’s roots, the bear’s tread, the sky’s vast dome. A scholar in Renaissance Florence pores over manuscripts, his mind touching a truth binding Plato to the stars, his ink a note in eternity’s song. A mother in Jamaica sways with her child, her dance joining the sea’s rhythm, the palm’s sway, the ancestors’ whispers. A quantum physicist in Tokyo pauses, her equations fading as a temple bell’s toll sparks a unity no math can chart. A child in a Moroccan desert flies a kite, its string taut with joy, its flight a thread stretching to every dreamer who has chased the wind. A sculptor in Bali carves wood, his hands guided by a form he senses but cannot see, as if the tree breathes with him. Our thoughts, those private sparks, are woven from lullabies heard in cradles, from glances in bustling bazaars, from the laughter of friends faded to memory. A farmer in Ethiopia sows teff, his hands joining soil to seed, his labour a note cradling rains and harvests. A girl in a Canadian forest catches snowflakes, her wonder a thread linking her to every soul who has marveled at winter’s dance. The self is no fortress; it is a prism, refracting a light flowing beyond, a shimmering chord passing through, unending.
This realization is not a loss but a liberation, a shedding of separation’s weight. The self is both fragment and whole, a paradox that hums with the chord’s quiet truth. Picture a single note in a symphony—distinct, yet meaningless without the others, its beauty born in relation. So too is the self, a voice that sings alone yet joins the chorus. In a Tibetan village, a monk spins a prayer wheel, his hum weaving with the wind’s sigh, the yak’s tread, the snow’s fall. Yet he is not the wheel, nor the wind, but a note that gains meaning in their harmony. A sailor in the Aegean casts a net, her hands distinct, yet joined to the sea’s pull, the gull’s cry, the horizon’s promise. A poet in Harlem scribbles, her words her own, yet woven from the city’s pulse, the ancestors’ songs. This paradox dissolves the veil, revealing the self as a thread in a tapestry that holds both the one and the all. To see this is to feel the chord’s pulse—not as a guide outside us, but as the rhythm within, the song we are. The veil parts, and the world glows with a light that is both ours and not ours, a unity that cradles every breath, every dream, every fleeting thought.
This liberation invites us to belong, to see ourselves not as solitary but as part of a melody stretching across time and space. Imagine an Aboriginal song line, where an elder’s chant traces paths walked by ancestors, her voice joining the desert’s pulse, the kangaroo’s leap, the stars’ arc. Your breath mingles with her song’s echo, your heartbeat mirrors the rhythm of ochre staining her hands. You are not apart, not an observer, but a participant—your presence a thread binding chant to dust, dust to sky, sky to you. In a Mediterranean port, a sailor hums, his tune weaving with the creak of ships, the slap of waves, the gull’s cry. In a New York subway, a poet recites, her verses joining the train’s rumble, the crowd’s murmur, the city’s electric hum. In an Amazonian clearing, a healer brews ayahuasca, her ritual linking vine to star, spirit to earth, breath to breath. A throat-singer in Mongolia vibrates the air, his notes joining the steppe’s wind, the horse’s gallop, the eagle’s soar. A polar explorer pauses, her boots crunching snow, her silence a hymn to the ice’s creak, the aurora’s glow, the world’s deep quiet. The shimmering chord pulses, carrying sunlight’s memory, rain’s weight, countless lives’ dreams. A weaver in Morocco threads wool, her pattern echoing the dunes’ curves, her labour a hymn to the earth’s slow turning. A dancer in Senegal spins through dust, her steps joining the drum’s beat, the baobab’s shade, the sky’s fire. This is divine guidance: an invitation to belong, a chord humming through the veil to reveal the sublime.
In this belonging, the world hums—a cosmic symphony struck in the silence binding all things. Picture a Ganges delta at dawn, where monsoon rain weaves river to rice field, farmer to harvest. The water sings through mangrove roots, egret wings, the hands of women crafting nets by the shore. In a Cairo bazaar, voices rise—vendors haggling, muezzins calling, children laughing—each sound a note joining stranger to stranger, heart to heart. High in an Atacama observatory, an astronomer traces a pulsar’s beat, her wonder linking her to the sky’s ancient fire. The earth hums, its tectonic shifts a bass note, its roots threading soil a melody older than memory. In a Congo rainforest, a gorilla’s grunt pierces dawn, answered by the drip of dew, the rustle of leaves. A child in Havana spins beneath palms, her giggle joining the wind’s sigh, the tree’s sway, the sea’s breath. In a Lapland tundra, a herder’s joik weaves with the reindeer’s tread, the snow’s fall, the aurora’s glow. A reef in Palau pulses with colour, each polyp cradling fish, tides, and myths of sunken worlds. In a Kyoto temple, a monk rakes gravel, his pattern a hymn to the stone’s silence, the bamboo’s bend. A shepherd in the Caucasus whistles, his tune joining the mountain’s pulse, the goat’s bleat, the cloud’s drift. This is the song of interexistence, a canticle that knows no boundary between self and other, near and far, its notes bound by the shimmering chord carrying the world’s heartbeat.
To hear this song is to sense the interconnectedness pulsing beneath reality. The stone you tread glows with mountains ground to dust, its grains sculpted by winds and waters across eons. The glance shared with a stranger stretches to life’s first gaze, to eyes yet unborn. A leopard’s prowl in the Okavango joins grass bending, stars burning, the river’s flow. An Arctic iceberg drifts, its melt a note cradling seals and distant currents. In a Yunnan terrace, a farmer carves rice paddies, his labour echoing the mountain’s curve, the cloud’s gift. A kite soars over a Dhaka slum, its string taut with a girl’s joy, its flight linking earth to ether. A coral atoll in Kiribati breathes, its polyps weaving fish, waves, and mariners’ tales. A monk in Bhutan spins a prayer wheel, his hum joining the valley’s pulse, the yak’s tread, the snow’s fall. Even the spaces we call empty—between stars, between words—are alive with potential, a silent hymn waiting to be voiced. Divine guidance is this harmony, the shimmering chord parting the veil to carry each voice into the next, inviting us to sing as part of the whole, to dance with the rhythm weaving the cosmos into one.
Yet this song is not always easy to hear. The world clamours, its noise muffling the chord. In ancient tribes, shamans sought the sublime in visions, yet clan wars drowned silence. Babylonian priests charted stars, but hierarchies buried wonder. Roman laws bound empires, but bureaucracy dimmed the pulse. Medieval inquisitions sought truth, yet dogma crushed questions. The Industrial Revolution’s engines roared, drowning silence with coal and steam, measuring life in output rather than breath. Colonial maps carved the world into fragments, erasing shared rhythms with borders and guns. Today, digital streams flood our senses—screens flashing metrics, algorithms parsing desire, their hum burying twilight’s hush. A trader in Singapore watches stocks, missing the mangrove’s sigh beyond his tower. A student in Jakarta scrolls feeds, feeling the world’s pain yet numbed by its flood. A CEO in London races deadlines, her heart racing but deaf to the Thames’ flow below. A mother in a Manila slum counts pesos, her eyes on survival, not the stars above. A farmer in Nebraska monitors apps, his gaze on data, not the prairie’s breath. Fear whispers of scarcity, urging us to cling to routine, to fortify walls against the unknown. In this cacophony, the shimmering chord fades, a whisper lost in the roar.
This struggle is not unconquerable, nor without precedent. In ancient Indus cities, scribes carved seals, their symbols joining them to rivers despite kings’ wars. In Tang dynasty China, poets wandered peaks, their verses a rebellion against courtly noise. During the Enlightenment, scientists sketched comets, their math weaving wonder into dogma’s cracks. Today, in urban sprawl, a gardener in Chicago tends herbs, her hands in soil a prayer to the earth’s pulse. A protester in Bogotรก chants for justice, her voice a thread in a chorus spanning revolutions. A coder in Nairobi, lost in code, sees a starling flock swirl, its pattern sparking clarity no screen could hold. In a Yemeni village, a boy draws in the sand, his lines weaving hope into despair, his smile a note joining the stars’ song. These are choices—moments when we turn toward the chord, sensing its rhythm beneath the noise. The sublime waits, patient as an ocean, for us to pause, to breathe, to hear. In a Kolkata alley, a rickshaw driver hums, his tune joining the city’s pulse, the river’s sigh, the sky’s glow. The shimmering chord persists, asking only that we listen, that we let the veil part to reveal the unity beneath.
This listening is a dance between doubt and wonder, a dialogue where guidance hums. Doubt clouds us—will the world hold, will we endure?—yet wonder sparks in the ordinary: a sparrow’s flight, a stranger’s nod, a raindrop’s fall. A fisherman in Kerala casts his net, hands steady despite empty catches; he doubts, yet wonders at the sea’s rhythm, feeling the chord in their tension. A teacher in a Gaza school shares a story, her voice faltering with fear, yet her tale carries hope, joining countless storytellers. A refugee in Lesbos weaves a bracelet, hands trembling with loss, yet each knot sparks joy, clarity amid chaos. A nun in Assisi prays, her doubt about suffering met by wonder at the olive’s bloom, each bead a note in the cosmos’s song. This dance is the sublime’s cradle, where guidance weaves doubt into becoming’s hymn. To live here is to embrace the unknown, to see uncertainty as a thread in existence’s tapestry, each question a note in its melody. The shimmering chord hums, not to resolve doubt, but to harmonize it, inviting us into the dance where clarity and mystery entwine.
This listening demands we loosen certainty’s grip. Our minds, shaped to conquer, resist attunement. We build walls of routine, believing they shield us from the unknown. But the unknown is the sublime’s cradle, where guidance whispers truths. A sage in ancient Varanasi, sitting by the Ganges, felt a question bloom—what is being?—and touched a current shaping millennia. A nurse in a Civil War tent, binding wounds, feels a warmth beyond exhaustion, as if the soldier’s breath joins hers in a shared song. An artist in Sรฃo Paulo, paint trembling, lets go of her plan, the mural leading, each stroke guided by a rhythm she cannot name. In a Bedouin tent, a guide trusts the stars, his steps tracing a path older than maps, his silence a hymn to the desert’s pulse. A drummer in Harlem, lost in rhythm, lets the beat flow, each strike a discovery no score could chart. A physicist in Cambridge, wrestling with entropy, sees a child’s pinwheel spin, its whirl sparking a unity no math could force. A teacher in a Tibetan exile school, guiding a girl through grief, finds words flowing from a deeper well, as if the moment speaks through her. These are glimpses of the veil parting, moments when the self softens and the world speaks. To live thus is to surrender—not to lose oneself, but to find oneself within the whole, to let the ocean carry us where it will.
Surrender is transformation’s heart, the paradox unlocking the sublime. It is not giving up but giving over, releasing the need to define. Picture a tide, its waves surging, receding, each crest a story, each trough a silence. To fight the tide exhausts; to surrender is to float, letting its rhythm shape your course. So it is with guidance. It asks us to dwell in mystery, to embrace flow over form. A poet in ancient Japan, gazing at cherry blossoms, let petals fall, his haiku birthing wisdom in their drift. A medic in Aleppo, tending a child, feels a bond beyond chaos, her care a note in the earth’s song. A sailor in the Pacific, lost in storms, trusts the swell, his helm guided by a rhythm older than charts. A refugee in Uganda plants a seed, her hands trembling with hunger, yet the act sparks hope, a thread in life’s tapestry. A jazz pianist in Chicago, fingers dancing, lets the keys lead, each chord a discovery no plan could hold. An astronaut above Earth, seeing the planet’s curve, feels awe joining her to every explorer’s gaze. A teacher in a Brazilian favela, sharing a book, sees a spark in a boy’s eyes, her hope a note in change’s song. A monk in Thailand sweeps a temple, his broom’s rhythm a hymn to the dust’s dance, the sky’s breath. These acts weave the shimmering chord tighter, joining us to the eternal now.
This eternal now is a paradox of separation and unity, where guidance deepens. The veil that hides the sublime is woven from it—a boundary that both divides and binds. In a Sahara oasis, a nomad pauses, his eyes tracing a palm’s sway, sensing the chord joining sand to sky, self to silence. In a Paris garret, a writer wrestles with blank pages, her pen still until a siren’s wail sparks a line, as if the world writes through her. A marine biologist in the Coral Sea dives, her breath joining the reef’s pulse, her hands tracing stories of polyps and tides. This veil is a mirror, reflecting our apartness yet inviting us to step through. To cross it is to see the world as whole, to feel the chord as essence. The nomad, the writer, the biologist—they are not seekers but the sublime, their lives a note, their actions a thread. The fisherman’s doubt, the mother’s song, the monk’s prayer—they are not apart from guidance but its voice, their every breath a shimmer in the light that binds all.
This now transforms the world, parting the veil to reveal the eternal. The stone beneath glows with ancient fires, its surface a map of journeys older than time. Your breath communes with trees, with stars whose dust you carry. A weaver’s loom clicks in a Navajo hogan, joining sheep, grass, sky. A city hums with millions, each sigh cradling joy and sorrow. The eternal now is a state of endings and beginnings, a horizon where the chord sings loudest. Picture the cosmos—black holes humming, birthing galaxies, each pulse a note in a hymn begun with the universe’s breath. Earth joins, savannas breathing, oceans surging, creatures moving in rhythms older than stone. A reef in Fiji pulses, its corals weaving fish, waves, and mariners’ tales. A tundra blooms, its moss a whisper against frost; a jungle hums, its vines a hymn to rain’s embrace. In a Delhi park, a boy plays cricket, his shout joining the city’s pulse, the river’s flow. A grandmother in Oslo knits, her hands weaving warmth into wool, her smile a note in eternity’s song. A dancer in Accra moves, her steps joining the drum’s beat, the palm’s sway, the sky’s fire. This is guidance’s gift—not a change in what we are, but in how we are. It reveals a reality unfolding, a timeless sea woven by all that exists, a light shining through an endless beginning.
What is this divine guidance, this shimmering chord parting veils to reveal a pulse? It is not a truth captured, not a secret unlocked, but a presence lived. Picture a horizon, always dawning, never reached—receding yet drawing you forward. This horizon is a way of being, walked with eyes open to each moment’s radiance, ears attuned to its song. To follow is to move without expectation, to see the stranger as a mirror, the storm as a teacher, the thought as a star in the mind’s night. You are not apart from the cosmos but woven from its threads, a note in its melody, a shimmer in its light. In a Kinshasa choir, voices rise, joining the Congo’s flow, the sky’s glow. In a Himalayan meadow, a herder whistles, her tune linking snow to star. A painter in Fez dips her brush, her colours joining the medina’s pulse, the desert’s sigh. A poet in Santiago scrawls, his lines weaving the Andes’ breath, the city’s dreams.
In this knowing, boundaries dissolve into harmony, a consonance defying containment. The guidance is the rhythm binding finite to infinite, fleeting to eternal. Your laughter, tears, hopes are threads in a tapestry beyond sight. Picture humanity’s dreams—children dancing in Aleppo, elders teaching in Kyoto, hands building in Lagos—a chorus joining earth’s seasons, cosmos’s spirals. A galaxy spins, its stars a hymn; a savanna roars, cradling a lion; a skyline glows, each light a hope. To listen is to become the mystery, each breath a step in the dance, each glance a knot in the weave. In a Tuareg camp, a griot sings, her voice joining stars and sand, her tale eternity’s thread. You are this, your life a note cradling all.
So we pause, at night’s edge, where the world hums with the shimmering chord. Stars burn, constellations of voices in the silent hymn. The air cools, the earth steadies, and within, belonging blooms—not of answers, but of presence. Guidance is a rhythm, a light revealing, a unity embracing all. To live within it is to feel the infinite in your palm, to know you are question and answer, unfolding, becoming, part of the sublime. A flutist in Vienna plays, her notes joining the Danube’s flow, the city’s dreams. A farmer in Laos sows rice, his hands a prayer to the earth’s pulse. In a coral sea, a turtle glides, its path a note in the ocean’s song.
๐๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ฆ๐ด๐ด๐ข๐บ ๐ช๐ด ๐ง๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ, ๐ด๐ฉ๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ, ๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ข๐ฅ๐ข๐ฑ๐ต ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ข๐ฏ๐บ ๐ธ๐ข๐บ.
๐๐ฆ๐ต ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ญ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐จ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ธ—๐ต๐ฐ๐จ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ, ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ข๐ฏ ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ช๐ญ๐ฅ ๐ข ๐ง๐ถ๐ต๐ถ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ด๐ฉ๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ช๐ด๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฎ.