Egyptian Baraka

You, who drink tea in the date palm’s shade,
A few steps and you are in the desert,
With the Nile running south to north
And the sun chasing east to west,
And you at the crossroads,
Always at the crossroads.
Stones, sand and dust are your birthright,
Where wild dogs and jackals patrol
And the mountainside caves
Are filled with bits of ancient bones.
Can you hunker down, sit still
And live with the gods?
We are dead men in the house of life,
Praying for the river to rise to sixteen ells,
The number of abundance.
In the hands of Osiris,
In the hands of Jesus,
Are the crook and flail.
Cut me a coffin from a sycamore tree
And I shall float downriver,
Lying on my back.
Mother, light a candle for your son.