The drying sky can’t ever be outgrown.
And, when it’s dry, gray patterns tend to fade.
Minds pierce right through it, daring to postpone
formation of the birds and frown cascade.

Seshat wrote out what used to live in dreams,
she shook the Tree of Ancestry. Stars fell.
The Heart of Nile had kept her barque in gleams
for passage was well written, hard to quell.

A palm of temple forced Seth to get down
for he got wind of where Seshat set sail.
His wish “to burn in sand the River” drown
and ire had left on water circles trails.

The choice is slim. Just crawl in wall-full air
or smash your brow, check what is left to clear.
The temple-cold embrace loves to ensnare
the way that every breath is worth a spear.

An exhalation would be priceless here.
It holds the endless change of lips by rime.
I dress you in the stones to meet sightseers,
a sculpture quality to freeze in time.

I’m your oblivion, estate, and plea.
Forget about Seshat in her white gown.
I’ll chisel to remake your soul where she
puts hopes in commas after “let” and “down”.

The speechless temple was enwrapped in sand,
the way a wave is cradling wounded ships.
The Nile’s Heart has a little to withstand...
since only Seth could move its shimmered lips.

November 18, 2010

free interpretation of this http://stihi.ru/2010/10/01/488