The Grief Of A Priest Poem by Nikhat Bano

Buried beneath tonnes of rubble
we were sealed in a sepulchre,
with two more souls lying parallel
once we all three were influential.

Put to rest for thousands of years
safe inside an adorned sarcophagus,
but as a helpless, mortified captive,
lying in that unnoticed and illusive.

My glorious burial in the past slot
was more painful than I thought,
Alas! They tried to make my body immortal
forgetting my soul, the only thing eternal.

After reciting all the Amun-Ra's prayers
using all the relics of His magical sceptre,
my body was embalmed for the after life
to rise once again to worship sunrise.

In any case, my coffin would've been found
with my clay figurine on the sun baked ground,
to let probers claim my lifeless body to ponder;
I wish I'd died as a believer not as a free thinker.

Alas! The self-proclaimed gods of my soil
could only save my body but not my soul;
Wish my king had deterred his reverence,
had appalled me from idolising Himself.

O Amun Ra! In your land I was the poorest of poor
if I knew the truth, hadn't bowed to a false pursuer;
Wish I'd risen from the dead as an awakened bones,
wish your army had crushed me under your rocks.

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