A Cuneiform Scribe

Kay Hassan

In a time long past, frozen in the depths of history,

A voice awakens my marble statue,

still and serene,

Whispering secrets of a bygone age,

When wisdoms soared high and carefree,

Across the vast expanse of the hazy universe,

Where truth was a sacred dream to vie for,

And mysteries reigned supreme

"I am a a sorcerer," a voice says, and casts a spell

on my marble flesh, to summoning the ancient spirits, in me: Read a scratch on an ancient gemstone, Made of clay and goddess' urine. "A slate for thy labours, son," He, the Almighty says, When He instated his first king.

The sorcerers, told the story better than prophets did: Kings, the real Satan on Earth,

Forced the Sumerian fingers to wedge the clay into the first slate.

Scripts baked in the inferno of his hearth,

Thus the tablets set sail across the ocean of time,

The vast chronicle of man's history,

And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.

But scarcely, we hear the echo of the clay.

"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted in me?"

O' fellow scribes: Let's bake our souls in the same forge,

Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,

That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star.

Let us heed the call, and journey to the ancient land, To delve into the secrets of nonbeing .

And with reverence anatomise the clay tablets scripts, the engraved Codes of kings, and stories they tell.

We see the hands of the scribes, as they etch with ancient tools,

The tales of battles fought, the victories won by kings and fools.

With every scratch of their quills, a new chapter was born,

Inscribed on tablets of clay, the history of the dawn.

And as we delve into the past, we see the lessons it reveals,

In the words of prophets and seers, we hear what wisdom conceals.

A spring of secrets, that flows from the depths of time,

A spring of secrets, that quenches the thirst of being.

So let's seek the secrets of odds,

and bake our souls in the same forge, Without reverence and awe, unfold the truth . In the echoes of past, we Through which we transcribe the divine voice ,

The call to the journey, is quest, To scratch the content of the reverent divine

***

Oh' dear whisperer,

I am still reading the same scratch on the ancient gemstones,

That, made of clay and goddess' urine.

And rehearsing the covenant,

"A slate for thy labours, son,"

He, the Almighty said,

When He instated his king.

Kings, the real Satan on Earth,

Forced the Sumerian fingers to wedge the clay into the first slate.

"Scribe the name of thy LUGAL,

Scribe the name of thy NIN,

Scribe the name of the holly whores,

Scribe the Codes of the kings."

Scripts baked in the inferno of His hearth,

Thus the tablets set sail across the ocean of his time,

The vast chronicle of man's history,

And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.

But scarcely, we hear the echo of the clay,

But now the echo of our once-constructive material

grows distant, and muffled by the din of our daily march,

Oh' dear whisperer, and fellow universe citizen,

"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted in me?"

O' fellow scribes, Ye all:

Let's bake our souls in the same forge,

Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,

That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star

Scribe the name of thy NIN,

Scribe the names of the famous whores,

Scribe the rulers' vain attempts,

their plans in disarray,

while their actions weighing down

by the un-efficacy's decay,

Scribe in the modern style

And then baked in the inferno of his hearth,

Thus the tablets had set sail across the ocean of his time,

And through the vast chronicle of man's history,

And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.

But scarcely, we hear the echo of the past.

"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted indeed?"

O' fellow scribes: Let's bake our souls in the same forge,

Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,

That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star

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