At Doopcantus’ fire, the laughter rang,
The halls of song and spirit sang.
But midst the cheer, in shadow’s play,
A silent hand reached out that day.
Upon the robe, the ink did gleam,
A haunting mark, a whispered theme.
The words appeared, both clear and plain:
“We are watching.” The chill remained.
No trick, no jest, no fleeting art,
It carved its echo through the heart.
For those who see, and those who wait,
Now linger softly near your fate.
We are watching. We are waiting.