She is the sycamore mistress whose supple arms encircle the sky,
her gilt branches winking in the languid embrace of the sun’s final moments.
How he stretches down for her, dappling those leaves and naked feet;
how lofty reach those arms of gold, those fingers of turquoise splendor.
Her name is House of Heaven as she stands upon her hill;
receiving the Sun-God’s diadem which outshines him upon her brow.
Two upright horns in whose curve radiates the power above the vault;
she receives him by eventide with half moon lips through which the stars
We enter her twilight cleft in the western mount where Sun-God slumbers;
his descended body swallowed by her mouth of celestial flood.
Is she not the keeper of his seasons, the golden vessel in which he lies;
when she becomes the tree of the fecund mound to receive him when he dies.
When the sacred river is at its flood she dips her naked toes;
a net of dusky gold glistens in her wake, her footfall watched by gods.
Ruddy lips catch a taste of the flood rushing fast to savor her ankles;
how quickly turn the heads of gods and men to steal a glance as she drifts by.
She dips low beneath the flood like that lotus when sundown calls;
how her twin mounds of east and west rise with vigor above the waters.
The Sun-God chases the wind to find his secret throne between them;
and blushes the flood as its wet kiss finds the source of life’s nourishment.
On the riverbank beside her weave and dance the papyrus scepters;
zesh-zesht, zesh-zesht they whisper as her wet thighs emerge.
Sycamore cow is her name when her flood meets the earth,
when all that is green becomes an ornament of turquoise at her breast.
Here Gods and men process to the quaking of hips and thighs;
when heaven’s shrine thunders, her voice cracks open earth and sky.
Drum and rattle and terror are hers as she takes to ecstatic movement;
how the eyes of all tumble down when she crashes in a cloud of myrrh!
Beneath the acacias whose branches sweep the vault she dances
malachite green and real lapis lazuli follow her sacral tread.
With brow in the sky and feet under soil she knots the worlds in union;
her divine throne making her home the keeping of Gods and men.
She has made of her sycamore branches a perch for the Sacred Falcon;
he alights with eyes wide open to the shrine of celestial play.
With her lithe body she girdles the sky whose sun becomes her lover;
as nightfall sweeps the river he receives heaven’s dappled embrace.
It is she who lifts him above the earth, the place where he alights;
her lotus breath becomes his name when she holds him firm by night.
Her stars she bestows to her lover of air, her eyes become his crown;
when earth pays homage to his sacred feet it is she who draws him down.
Night finds her braided tresses home of moon with stars behind;
a crescent to form a diadem and a net of gold to shine.
When daylight brightens her perfect form as girdle of the sky,
a gilded belly flashes copper navel above an ebony shrine.
Sycamore Goddess whom earth and sky follow appears full-faced by dawn;
the Sun-God’s yawning arms stretch far to hail her lotus face unfurling.
Our sacred river leaps in its turbulent courses to kiss her vaunted roots;
the earth itself rising to follow when her fingers arouse his Two Banks.
What raiment does she need when all of heaven is her mantle;
creation wraps her primordial form in fine gold and beams of turquoise.
Yet ground and vault dance with desire for the raptures of her light;
our sky’s girdle by which the life of the sun becomes our eternal mansion.
All text copyright © 2016 Ptahmassu Nofra-Uaa