When Atum woke, he forgot he had slept,
was aware he knew secrets and where they were kept.
Over a slain soldier no widow yet wept.
First tribes of humans he watched settle by a river,
a snake of water they called the Nile.
Vowed to cleanse them of hate, burn that black bile.
Brighter than the sun they worshipped, he shone.
Wisdom lined his brow, peace creased his smile.
Wide he stretched the fingers of his right hand,
as pyramid temples men built on the sand.
The foul acts of the Pharaoh kings alarmed his mind,
he had wished them to rule justly and kind.
Tribal feuds made his heart pump hard, stricken with pain.
Not warriors but farmers he valued, growers of grain.
Explorers in ships, he admired, and tellers of tales.
He steered his barge through the stars, blew wind in its sails.
Now in his face, see what was good, what was rotten.
Though no priest kneels to his name, it is not forgotten.
O, Atum, lord of the land, king of the sky,
where do gods go when the gods die?