Sekhet Alu
Two colonnades of Busiris here stand,
the pillars of glory in the realm of the ram.
Where the four-souled beast raises its head,
mighty Anubis protects every gate,
bowing head to Osiris, the master of fate
and the king of the realms of the dead.
He rules there in peace, with truth as his rod,
his throne in the midst of the tomb of the god
where emperors themselves come to die,
the lord of the west as the sun that has set,
strong in his splendor and unfaded as yet,
and great like the death of the sky.
Unless it has died, a seed cannot live;
to that which is dead, no fear can one give,
for the dead in the fields like the seeds are all sown.
Embalmed they are cured, and freed from all blight,
the sunset preserving the joys of their sight:
Osiris they know, by Osiris are known.
Marshmallow lands by the Delta-mouth grown
with the souls of the dead are become thickly sown,
the asphodel meadows where the mummy-god rules.
The dead are all walking in the splendor of light,
hearts light as a feather and ardent for right,
and free of this world so snake-like and cruel.
Twofold truth in the halls of the king
with the pious confession in prayer there rings
('I am pure, I am pure, I am pure').
The never-defiled have reward as they must,
are weighted by balance, and known to be just:
in the hands of Anubis their spirits endure.
Osiris
Osiris sleeps and dreams of death,
entombed in ebon halls of stone,
the death-blessed god on sacred throne,
and over gilded sands his breath
still seeks the signs of Isis' will.
And, through Egyptian starlight still
that shines in quiet on the sands,
it courses past the nomad-bands,
a honeyed wind that blows no ill,
and pulses with old hope's demands.
And Isis wanders through the lands
to seek the tombs and sacred throne,
to re-knit flesh to flesh and bone;
she takes the children in her hands
and makes them gods upon the flame.
The dead all have Osiris' name;
one soul goes up, one soul remains,
and on the Nile night-sent rains
will fall to heal the blind and lame
and raise the dead to grace.
Taharqa
At the City of Beautiful Monuments
the Crown encircled your head,
blessed with the gift of heaven
and the glories of the dead.
Your mother upon the River
to the throne of Horus came
from the Bowlands and the Southlands
to praise your rising name.
The gods looked well upon you;
the River gave life in flood.
The temple towns were many,
the harvests full and good.
In Karnak and Kawa was lavished
the ram of great Amun
with treasures to shame all princes
beneath the sun and moon.
Down came Assyrian armies,
up went Taharqa's hand;
by army, mice, and angel
was saved Yehuda-land.
But alas! All things must vanish;
the wolf of the north returned
again and again with sorrow
and an anger that seethed and burned.
In the holy City of Scepter
you saw your final end
as Assyrian darkness and fire
did on the Two Lands descend.
But in Nuri you sleep with Osiris
to return one day from the dead
in the glory of perpetual kingship,
the Western sun on your head!
