In the quiet rooms of the unseen

In the quiet rooms of the unseen, Where shadows dance with ancient secrets, A choreography of reality is woven mysteriously, Created by unseen hands, the puppeteers of the world, Threads of truth and illusion, like stars in the night sky. There, in a hidden sanctuary in Washington, Unknown shadows draw the contours of existence, Not just events, but their mystical essence, Shaping the lens through which we view the universe, A Ministry of Truth, like a silent oracle. Whispers of power float like sacred smoke, Invisible ink on the parchments of our destinies, Dictating the story of nations, The rise and fall of empires, Not through swords or incantations, But through the silent pen of divine interpretation. Through the media, the message flows like an enchanted river, Unquestioned, uncontested, an elixir of certainty, Carrying with it the weight of authority, Asking nothing, answering all, A symphony of controlled chaos, A ballet of faith and doubt, woven by gods. Yet, beneath the surface, The heart of humanity beats like a sacred drum, A pulse of curiosity and defiance, Seeking the cracks in the facade, The places where light penetrates like a divine ray, Revealing the raw, unfiltered truth, like an unveiled oracle. In this mystical dance of shadows and light, We find our place, our purpose, To question, to seek, to understand, To write our own choreography, In the endless, ever-changing spectacle Of life and reality, a sacred dance of existence.