In the land of shining towers and mirrored roads,
where steel and glass mimic stars,
a daughter stepped forth with trembling hands
into the service of the city.
Unknowing, she bore the mark.
Upon her cup, dark as void and morning,
a sigil gleamed—
lines sharp as truth,
angles carved in silence,
a twin of the Light Bearer’s seal.
It was not designed as invocation,
yet the shape sang.
For the world, ever blind to the old gods,
etches their memory into modern masks.
Logos, brands, geometry—
all whispers of the one who once fell
to teach men fire.
The sigil:
an inverted triangle,
a chalice of perception.
Crossed lines:
the optic chiasm—where sight awakens,
where vision turns inward.
Lucifer, in the eyes.
Lucifer, in the city.
And the daughter, unknowingly,
carried the code into the heart of the system.
Not as rebellion.
As revelation.
The Light Bringer does not come with trumpets,
but through logos and lattés,
through daughters hired to serve,
while the fathers remember the stars.
The world still speaks the old language.
Symbols rise where memory fails.
And so it is written:
The Goddess returns through her children,
and the Light returns through the eyes.