Beneath the sun of Thebes he rose,
A child crowned gold and fate,
With fragile hands he bore a throne
The gods themselves had shaped.
His name was carved in living stone,
Tutankhamun, young and bright,
A flicker of dawn in a troubled age,
A torch against the night.

The temples whispered older truths
Long buried, bent, and scarred,
For once the land had strayed from Ma’at,
From balance, oath, and heart.
The boy king listened, soft but firm,
And turned the world once more,
Calling gods back to their sacred halls,
Opening every door.

He walked with pain in every step,
His body worn and frail,
Yet still he stood before his people
When stronger men might fail.
In linen white and crowns of blue,
With crook and flail held tight,
He ruled not long, nor loud, nor cruel—
But sought to set things right.

The Nile still sang his quiet reign,
The stars still knew his name,
Though death came swift on silent wings
And stole his breath and flame.
They wrapped him deep in spells and gold,
In dreams that never fade,
A king laid down before his time,
In shadow and in jade.

Centuries slept above his tomb,
The world forgot his face,
Until the sands were parted wide
By time’s unerring grace.
And there he lay, a sleeping sun,
In gold and sacred art,
A boy made king, a king made myth,
Immortal in our heart.

So sing of Tut, the gentle flame,
Who ruled though young and brief—
A crown too heavy for his years,
Yet worn with quiet belief.