The Luciferian Age

The angel did not fall.

He discovered gravity.

The light was never his,

but he wore it well.

Above him, the old architecture

kept speaking in gold,

in orders,

in invisible chains.

Below him, the world opened

like a wound

or a mouth.

He did not want evil.

He wanted authorship.

He wanted the flame

without the hand that gave it.

The face

without the Father.

The name

without obedience.

And so he fell

into matter,

into mirrors,

into cities,

into galleries,

into screens.

Every century called him differently.

The rebel.

The poet.

The dandy.

The avant-garde.

The founder.

The brand.

The image.

But it was always the same light,

divorced from its source,

multiplying itself

until the world became visible

and no one remembered why.

God remained invisible.

Lucifer became style.

That was the beginning

of our age.

No fire.

No horns.

No abyss.

Only brightness

without origin.

Only beauty

after command.

Only the terrible freedom

of reflected light

believing itself

to be the sun.