video_Влюблённая русалка-24, Eng
Mermaid in Love Vladimir Yelin Chapter 24. The Artist’s Conviction “On Earth,” they said, “the hearts grew hard— Cynicism reigned like fire. A toxic net stretched wide and far, Machines replaced what once inspired. Our human soul began to dim Beneath elite transhuman plans. Morality gave way to whims— And time erased what love began. The family faded from the scene, No roots, no tears, no lullaby. All children raised by cold machines— No mother’s voice, no father’s eye. And love, religion, art, and lore Were digitized beyond repair. What once was felt, believed, adored— Was stripped and stored in wired air. We studied all your human kind— Compared your blood, your heart, your grace. And you, in spirit and in mind, May help restore what we erased. Your code is rare—we must begin To scan and hold it deep inside. From moral lands, your roots run thin— But through your line, we still have time. We only ask you choose to stay— To join our world, to guide its tone. With you, we may rebuild the way And find a future all our own.” The artist paused and gently said, “But here I’ve felt no loss of soul. Your voices reach beyond the dead— You’ve long refused the siren’s goal.” “Stay here with us,” they pleaded then, “We’ll give you truths no tool could show. Through trance you’ll walk the stars again— And see the universe unfold.” “But those I saw—were they machines?” He turned and asked fair Isis, tense. She answered, “Yes. Their height is seen— Each built to serve their one defense.” Then came a siren—sharp, alive! The center lights began to flare. “Now follow me!” cried Isis, primed, And leapt into the rescue chair.
Mermaid in Love Vladimir Yelin Chapter 24. The Artist’s Conviction “On Earth,” they said, “the hearts grew hard— Cynicism reigned like fire. A toxic net stretched wide and far, Machines replaced what once inspired. Our human soul began to dim Beneath elite transhuman plans. Morality gave way to whims— And time erased what love began. The family faded from the scene, No roots, no tears, no lullaby. All children raised by cold machines— No mother’s voice, no father’s eye. And love, religion, art, and lore Were digitized beyond repair. What once was felt, believed, adored— Was stripped and stored in wired air. We studied all your human kind— Compared your blood, your heart, your grace. And you, in spirit and in mind, May help restore what we erased. Your code is rare—we must begin To scan and hold it deep inside. From moral lands, your roots run thin— But through your line, we still have time. We only ask you choose to stay— To join our world, to guide its tone. With you, we may rebuild the way And find a future all our own.” The artist paused and gently said, “But here I’ve felt no loss of soul. Your voices reach beyond the dead— You’ve long refused the siren’s goal.” “Stay here with us,” they pleaded then, “We’ll give you truths no tool could show. Through trance you’ll walk the stars again— And see the universe unfold.” “But those I saw—were they machines?” He turned and asked fair Isis, tense. She answered, “Yes. Their height is seen— Each built to serve their one defense.” Then came a siren—sharp, alive! The center lights began to flare. “Now follow me!” cried Isis, primed, And leapt into the rescue chair.