He walks where silence becomes language,
where thought takes form before breath knows its shape.
Ink gathers at his fingertips
like stars waiting to be named.

Thoth, keeper of the measured moment,
you weigh the unseen against the heart’s hidden tremor.
In your gaze, chaos slows—
becoming rhythm, becoming law.

The moon bends low to hear you write,
silver light spilling across papyrus dreams.
Every symbol carries a pulse,
every line a doorway toward knowing.

You teach that wisdom is not thunder,
but the quiet alignment of truth within the soul—
a balance held between question and answer,
between memory and becoming.

Scribe of the eternal turning,
guide my words to honesty.
Let my thoughts grow wings of clarity,
and rise like ibis feathers toward dawn.