Akhenaten
in his royal litter
lies in the dark,
listens, hears whispers.
They are only whispers.
Akhenaten
knows their voices are
only chants of priests,
their presence, only incense.
their forms,
only rock-hewn imagining
of ancestors.
Akhenaten
knows the dark sanctuaries
where they live,
has seen the Sun
conquer their courts and chambers,
overcome their stone-bound
impassive visages.
They are only whispers.
Akhenaten
knows the One,
the only One.
Awaits,
will rise himself
to attend its rising
between the two hills.
Brown Akhenaten,
blessed by the One.
They are only whispers.
Malpaís Review, Spring, 2015
