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I
The Sphinx keeps its secrets.
Its silence contains civilizations,
Dynasties, lost worlds.
Between its paws
The sands of the desert shift
Like a burial shroud,
Covering the kingdoms of Egypt.
What's left of its face
Seems inscrutible as life itself,
Or the mummies lying within it
Waiting for some long promised solstice.
The Book of the Dead
Never opens. The stars overhead
Have turned and moved on,
Leaving behind King Tut's tomb
And Cleopatra's Needle.
II
The Sphinx, like everything else made by man,
Only passes away. The Earth lives on,
Changing as it has always changed around it,
Burrying its stillness with the desert.
A king who once thought he could live forever
Had the Sphynx carved from the cold, solid rock,
Believing it could come to life.
But the immeasurable Sahara
Swallows it whole, and the Scirroco
Roars over its carcass.
III
So the Sphynx is dead. The Pharoes of Egypt
Still lie in their tombs. Their treasures,
Carried away by grave robbers,
Have come to nothing.
The craftsmen who piled it up into its ruins
No longer hope to be remembered for it.
Instead, they seem to haunt the desert
Watching for signs of a star.
After the Sphynx has passed away,
When there is nothing left of it
Or the great pyramids,
Perhaps then we will see the light.
Perhaps then the spring will come at last
And the desert will come back to life.
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