Under the Columns of Old Kemet

Stone columns rise like quiet giants,

etched with stories the sun still reads.

Sand gathers at their heavy feet,

guarding the hours no one names.

A falcon’s shadow crosses the temple floor,

sliding over broken tablets and forgotten hymns.

The air holds the weight of centuries,

pressing softly against the stillness.

Heat shivers above the old stones,

carrying echoes of distant drums.

Under the columns of old Kemet,

the silence carries a deeper voice.

Every grain remembers kingdoms fading,

every wall leans toward an ancient choice.

Carved figures watch with hollow eyes,

waiting for dusk to return their breath.

Painted gold clings to the pillars,

dimmed, but never willing to fade.

The Nile wind wanders through the ruins,

lifting a thin veil of dust,

as if offering the past

to anyone brave enough to see it.

Under the columns of old Kemet,

the silence carries a deeper voice.

Every grain remembers kingdoms fading,

every wall leans toward an ancient choice.

And when the last light bows to the horizon,

the temple stands unmoved—

holding all it has lost,

and all it refuses to release.