When Akhenaten raised the disk of gold,
And cast the old gods down from temple heights,
He dreamed a sun that all the world would hold,
And built a city washed in blinding lights.

But Amarna’s sands could not resist the tide,
The priests of Amun whispered in the dark,
They struck his name from stone when he had died,
And scattered shadows on his holy mark.

The Aten failed to warm what he had wrought,
His statues smashed, his city laid to waste,
For when the heretic was reduced to naught,
The old gods laughed to see his god disgraced.

So suns may rise on cities built in pride,
But darkness claims the dreamers who have died.