Prophecies – The conversion of the Egyptians (Isaiah xix, 19); an altar in Egypt to the true God.
– Pascal, Pensees, 724
My altars are ubiquitous. I touch
The shadows that they cast. Once river mud,
My soul’s basalt is baked and bricked from scratch…
The Greeks had heroes; Rome, its empire’s blood,
But revenant Cleopatra boasts death
As neither myth nor state. So Egypt stood
As proof: my lust and beauty forged its truth
In brickyards, straw or not. The pyramid
And temple praise me. Caesars raise a wreath
Upon my crypt, like writhing asps that bid
My granite-needled will and hang with thread
My womb, an empire’s balance pan, which hid
My heart and raised my feather far above
The reign of Ra. So Serpent Apep’s rule
Commands that woman crush such fleeting love
Upon the open market. Sell a mule
In memory of me, then; buy a colt
To free my soul. When strangers come, the cruel
Indifferent sun still blackens soil, and silt
That bleeds from holy Nile to middling seas
Still shapes my body, bringing to a halt
Advancing Roman altars. Prophecies
Are empty: Take the Jews – they came, they lost,
They conquered nothing. So my enemies
Abjure: I alone renovate this boast.
Now this I can work with.
That was great and interesting to boot. Sexy statue!!!