The Scribe’s Speech

Everybody carries – some in boats, others on their backs –

the first day. I am the Scribe. Therefore I know : while lasting,

everything is passing away. Yet – whither ? though I myself, on my papyrus,

could unveil this between whiles.

The multiple eye connects all the points on the horizon ;

the arm encompasses none. They reach the funnel :

it strangles them in its narrow neck, then unravels

the cataracts of the sacred Nile.

Here I stand motionless. The stiletto in my hand feels the scroll.

Serene shapes are born under its grinding noise :

the hawks wearing their tall-pointed mitres, the scarabs, and the snakes

proven to underlie the deep sands.

The worldly sign has a meaning yonder : the Sphynx can behold it.

Don’t budge me from my position ! Mortals

are born from their parents’ love ; whereas he, Atum-Ptah,

is conceived from his own name.

Grains and wines, buried urns provide the departed

with their subterranean lunches. Nonetheless, myself and no other !

am assigned to preserve their names : as mummies of the language

the pharaohs spend their nights on the throne.

The Essential Dialogue

“Whom shall I worship ? Fata Morgana turn things green

and the lion’s trumpet dispells the oases !

Hunched, on a hunched star,

like a camel amongst the dunes…”

“Be faithful to your own worshippings ; on

barren sands, punish yourself with grotesque mirages.

When the prophets blather, the gods’

beards grow tangled.”

English version by Gabriela PACHIA