For the one who would take on a god in his hearth, in his home,
Small, all alone.
Skinny and bare, bolder than you'd hope but not as bold as you might think.
What else to reach for if not higher,
What else to pray to if not sky fire?

The hand in its place has no chance to erase
The pain of the days long gone by.
The ankh round the neck is a drag, a behest,
A reminder that gods too shall die.
But for each younger child who braves the dry wild,
A paucity of pilgrims do wait.
And in the dark mornings, a stone's throw from learning
A lesson that's come far too late.
Dare question the order? Like a pyramid's border,
The slant is the reason and rhyme.
And if you stay humble, the next one won't stumble,
And the next one has even more time.

So see what you must, don't despise the unjust, for they have no chance to undo
what was done to them. It must stand for all men, and for you, my dear reader, too.