In the quiet dawn, I dream of Aaru’s field,
Where the reeds grow tall beside a silver river,
And the souls who pass through judgment’s feather-light
May walk forever where the lotus blooms.
No shadow falls, no serpent breaks the grain—
Only the sun, whose name was Ra, keeps watch.

At first, the west holds nothing but a watch
Of jackals and the weighing of the heart in fields
Unseen. But Osiris breathes the grain
To life, and leads the blessed to the river
Where water drinks the dust of tombs and blooms
A garland for the wanderer, feather-light.

The boatman knows no greed; his skiff is light.
He does not ask for coin, but for a watch
Spent in true speech. And when the traveler blooms
Into the meadow, stepping from the field
Of reeds, they wash their feet in the sweet river—
No salt, no blood, just milk and ripened grain.

They say the bread there grows from living grain,
That each word spoken is a thing of light,
That memory becomes a slower river,
That time itself forgets to count and watch.
This is no paradise of gold—this field
Is small and endless, where the faithful bloom

Not like a flame, but like a word that blooms
Inside the mouth of earth: a silent grain
That knew the dark and chose the open field.
No tortured flesh, no whip, no burning light—
Just work that rests, and a companion’s watch
Beside a bend no sorrow knows in the river.

I have seen paintings of that holy river
On tomb walls, where the scribe bends to bloom
In papyrus, his heart light as a watch
Of lapis. He will eat of sacred grain,
He will walk with gods who speak in light—
Not as a slave, but as a keeper of the field.

And so I think: the real Aaru field
Is not a prize, but a remembering river.
To live without a lie, to work by light,
To let the heart grow soft as lotus blooms—
That is the harvest. That is the eternal grain.
That is the peace. That is the feather-light.

So let me watch the river bend through grain,
Not as a ghost, but as a living bloom—
Light as a feather, keeper of the field.