Sand drifts through the hourglass of centuries,
each grain a whispered name—
Pharaoh, priest, lover, scribe—
falling soft as linen on the breast of night.

The Nile dreams in silver ribbons,
winding through papyrus shadows
where ibis birds trace hieroglyphs
against the indigo throat of sky.

Beneath the Sphinx’s half-closed eye,
pyramids hum with starlight,
their limestone hearts remembering
a sun that once bowed to gold.

Lotus blooms unfurl in darkness,
pink mouths drinking the cool residue of evening,
while somewhere a sistrum shakes—
that rattle of eternity—
and ankhs hover like fireflies
over the sleeping brows of gods.

O, to walk the colonnade of Karnak
when the moon is a scarab rolling across heaven,
to feel the warm breath of the desert
speaking in tongues of heat and mirage,
to know that even stone dissolves
into the same dream from which it rose.

The sarcophagus holds no body—
only the residue of blue faience,
of lapis and malachite wishes,
of a name written in silence
that the wind still tries to pronounce.

Sleep now, beneath the date palms.
Let your shadow be measured
against the feather of Ma’at.
The pyramids are waiting
to carry you home
on boats of woven reeds,
sailing upstream
into the mouth of forever.