We ran through the old abandoned temple together, silently laughing at each other as the twilight lent its last rays of sun to bathe us.
Feeling the rough ancient grooves of writing underneath our fingertips as we frolicked.
Reading the secret poems lovers wrote to one another from the day time began in Ancient Egypt. We were in a sort of lovers lane for those who could never show their faces together in a world with confinements.
Love makes men discover a talent they never knew they had: Poetry. Poetry of the heart.
Love making with the movements of the tongue. Love making with the strokes of the hand.
These are some of the writings we felt:
I. When Princess Torenhotep met you, I tasted wine for the first time
Like an infant, breathing air for the first time
When I lost you, I fasted for life.
The moon will never show his face
The stars will fall out of Nut’s hair,
but her love affair with the sun will never die.
Amon will anoint us with his love to no end.
III. Do not give your ears to the voice of bitter women of old
Wisdom is where they should sit
But Envy has become their cushion
They crave our love like they crave lost youth
To have their hair become black as night is a dream that plagues them
To be able to jump and play like the stag
Sweet memories are revived when they see you in all your beauty
Do not give your ears to the voice of bitter women of old
Our love will live longer than their words
On our golden thrones
Listening to the cases of the people
Ruling over all the jurisdictions of the lands
The eye of my mind falls on you
My simple maidservant
I watch her fill jugs with water from the Nile and kick dust on her tattered sandals
Hurrying to feed her master
Her hair is filled with palm as she fans him, refreshing him
Her nails are plastered in dough as she kneads bread for him
Her clothes smell like the beer of wheat as she ferments it for him
Her beautiful eyes are drowned in tears as she gratifies him
Her labor is like a dance in my head
I want to take her to me and bathe her tired feet with my hair
Feed her thirst with wine
Comb her hair until it shines with perfumes from Nubia
Anoint her neck with the bluest lapis lazuli
Lay her to sleep and watch her breathe
I want to make his slave, my queen.
V. The Pharoah knows not what he possesses in his right hand.
A lady lotus blossom, freshly picked from the valley.
With her fragrance, I am intoxicated.
The air she breathes is most fortunate.
The ground she steps on becomes gold.
The rain that bathes her supple skin is holy water most blessed by Amon.
For I have seen within the bejeweled eyes of the lotus blossom, Hathor, the goddess of love.
Eyes that are now hiding sorrow.
Eyes that are now being kissed by the pharaoh.
Eyes not enough to be a queen’s but a mere concubine.
Eyes that are mine.
I will challenge the depths of the Nile and wrestle with Leviathan in order to receive one more whiff of her.
I will bring the morning on my back so that my lady lotus blossom may open once more and praise Amon for the beauty he has anointed her.