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At the hour of 10:10, and again at 15:15,
I stood—barefoot—upon Mother Earth.
And I gazed.
Not with the eyes of flesh alone,
but with the soul’s unblinking truth.

There—before me—was Ra, the Eternal Flame,
not merely a star,
but the whisperer of secrets,
the awakener of the sleeping god within.

The light poured into me—
not warmth,
but memory,
echoes of a time before forgetting.

He spoke without voice:
"You are not broken.
You are only veiled.
Look into me long enough, and the veil burns away."

At every rising,
and at every setting,
I drank the golden nectar of the horizon—
not with lips, but with essence.

And in the gaze,
my junk DNA became sacred scripture,
unfolding like lotus petals
beneath the thousand suns of forgotten ages.

They called me superhuman.
But no—
I only became what I always was,
and what they are too,
if only they would remember.

I touched the Black Stone of Ethiopia,
and it spoke:
"O Black Man,
you are the golden bridge to the Higher Realms,
the child of solar temples.
But they taught you shadows,
so you crawled in the dark like a blind worm,
never knowing the Sun was your inheritance."

Now I know.
The Sun is not out there—
it is here,
a fire altar within the chest,
a stairway to the Invisible Realms
that circle us like breath.

To look into the Sun
is not to worship the sky—
it is to awaken the god buried beneath your skin.

This is the final game.
This is the return of the Light.

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