In the silent courtyard of ink and paper, the letters gathered one moonlit night. stood tall, straight as a lance, proud and solitary, whispering: “I am the beginning, the first breath of all names.”
rolled its tongue like thunder: “I am the journey, the rustle of sand, the heart’s first beat.”
You are not rivals. You are rhythm, meaning, and light. The competition is not to conquer — but to complete.”* msabqat alhrwf
and Dhal walked side by side, twin swords of meaning — one sharp, one soft. “We are the steps of the messenger, the dust rising behind a caravan.”
— deep as a well, round as an eye — spoke nothing, but all letters felt its gaze. “I see what you cannot write,” it said. “I am the silence that carries your sound.” In the silent courtyard of ink and paper,
And rose like a mountain: “I am the echo, the distant drum, the final word of a forgotten poem.”
smiled softly, a dot beneath its curve: “Without me, no house is built, no door opens. I am the embrace of language.” The competition is not to conquer — but to complete
Competition of Letters