Plump sun vertically blind through the slats
punctuates itself on the morning door
as exclamation point.
It could be calligraphy from the beyond,
silently shouting what inning this is,
playing field returning to pasture.
Or it might be a call to arms for upheaval
in the city square. Pharaohs unraveled,
floating down the Nile to the sea
toppling hierarchy of pyramids from top
down to stone upon slavery stone
beneath the sand, fade to black.
Oil greases generals and uniforms rule
the unruly, drunk with overthrow
and the roar of silent guns.
Every end, a start of something new or just
a changing of the guard, the more
it changes it stays the same.
Even after centuries of worshiping Ra,
who is fluent in solar hieroglyph
to read the light or shadows on the wall?
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