Before the pyramids had names,

before the desert learned to sleep,

when Ra still carried fire across the heavens

and Isis guarded secrets the stars could keep—

there was a woman beneath the moon,

wrapped in the silence of ancient sand,

with the golden dusk upon her skin

and forgotten kingdoms at her command.

They said she carried Isis in her heart,

the patience of the Nile in her veins,

and like Hathor, she knew the sacred beauty

that could soften even sorrow and pain.

The years had written their hieroglyphs

upon the places time had touched,

yet every mark became a story—

and every story meant so much.

She was not made for fleeting glances

or the hurried world of modern days;

she belonged to candlelit chambers,

to incense drifting through temple haze.

Perhaps some Pharaoh once whispered her name

beneath a thousand burning stars,

and promised her a love eternal—

stronger than kingdoms, stronger than wars.

Perhaps Anubis himself stood waiting

at the threshold between then and now,

while she carried the weight of longing

beneath a moonlit brow.

And somewhere beyond the desert,

where the Nile turns silver at night,

a forgotten lover still remembers

the woman who once held his light.

For some souls are older than memory,

some hearts were never meant to roam—

they carry ancient temples within them,

and spend their whole lives longing for home.

So let the moon fall softly upon her,

let the desert keep what it knows;

she is a daughter of forgotten gods,

where mystery blooms

and the sacred river flows.

And if I had lived in that ancient world,

beneath the watchful eyes of the sky,

I think I would have searched the temple halls

for the woman who made eternity sigh.