Another Book of the Dead poem

He knew himself condemned to dust and rot,
to wander in a desert without end
with worm-gnawed eyes no poultices would mend
to fall and lie forgotten. This is what

he then decided. He would smash and steal
eternity from them, would break their tombs,
would loot the jewels from their painted rooms,
would cut the masks from them. Would make them feel

the hot wind of his hatred at their back.
Just as they found their haven, they would see
Anubis shake his sad dog’s head. No plea
would save them, ever. He’d ensure they’d lack

a body’s anchor for their wounded soul.
Beetles and weevils slowly eat them whole.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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