Year after year
after millenia
we carry
heavy stones
on our back
tenderly,
the corners
digging in,
causing us to bleed,
causing us to walk on,
heads held high.
We boast our
history of miracles.
All of us
from the royal line
Pharoah, craftsman,
oracle, slave.
The Sphynx sustains us,
taking only half of everything.
Our inheritance is to hail kings,
but it is a thief
that stands holding
the noble baton.
We bend down on our knee,
bow with no reverence.
Trying to resist.
The end of the rifle
poised at out cheek.
One by one
the throw ff
our burkas,
close the shop
in boycott.
After all, we build the pyramids.
We were born of
philosophers and messiahs.
We awaken each other, join hands, take the blows, reclaim.
Long before the great tombs the Nile flowed.
It runs deep and calm. It runs always. Beholden to no one.
Impassive, giving to all, honoring time,
the river carves through the hard dry earth.
Year after year, our revolution follows the winding Nile
to meet the delta where we will lay
our stones down.