A thousand upon a thousand books surround me whilst I try to lay down many a thought.

So many dreams that they desire me to write down for you

And yet, the despair I feel as I try to become a better scribe at your northern Isle court

As I recount tales in hieroglyphs of your bravery and beauty to praise and beguile to.

The descriptions I drive into the stone never quite feel right to show devotion

To a daughter of Pharaoh’s who has her people entranced

With her stunning splendour and smooth motion,

As she takes to the marbled floors of Thebes and with many a man danced.

A worthless, pitiful fool am I

To think that a Queen of Pharaoh’s would trust the word of an old poet.

One who has seen such beauty before and yet who

Finds work in her court intolerable as she makes me lie

To myself as I try to capture her eye to absolve the debt

I owe. I told her that she made an old scribe’s heart brand new.

Ian D. Hall