I am a daughter older than her father.
Old, old am I, as old as Mind and at least as old as Deceit; I am She who is intellect and insight, and I know how to beguile with reason, which is not the same as truth.
I am and have been all these things: the bird on the water, the snake in the rock, the tree on the hill; the shining dew, the olive-wood image, the City on the height. I have yoked oxen and tamed horses, devised festival and competition, art and glory.
I guide heroes and those who would dare; I have killed Giants, destroyed disorder, hidden secrets.
Long, long ago, I contested for the City with dark Poseidon, and I won, for I am the better.
From nothing, I can craft anything. From thin air, lightning. From old bones, music. From mud, the invaluable amphora. Out of utility I create beauty; from defeat, victory; and from anger, justice.
Be mindful, for I am often with you and may take any form; the owl-eyed girl at the well, the matron at the loom, the old woman with the spindle who beckons; or the potter selling her wares, the warrior fighting beside you, the mentor who offers advice. I watch with bright eyes, shining and changeable as the sea, daring you to see through my illusions; and indeed, the clever, the wily, the canny are my most beloved.
To recognize me, recognize the enthousiasmos within you, and be shrewd enough to pull the question from the answer. For this is truth: though I am a liar, I am entirely trustworthy.