Wind ruffles his strand,
And covers memories with ancient sand.
Strand’s blowing off the flesh from our hands.


Our legacy will fade; a moment of despair-
There’s nothing that can make the pathfinder go out of his straight way.
Those who fall behind disperse in perpetuity. There is no coming back.
The silent wayfarer never let us lose track.


Will you make any break before the very end?
We offer sacrifice to make you stop and rest.
We beg for mercy upon our graying dry heads.
For any minute given over what you’ve granted.


Tonight the sun will rise on the western bank of Nile.
To let the Moon highlight the way.
There is no chance to overtake the time.
Nowhere to run from him, the traveler from Thebes.


Mortals change their gods, kingdoms, and faces.
His eyes are motionless with no expression
The indifferent curator of the motions
Never does he change pace


Parchments and manuscripts will start decaying,
The sand will refract the tales told and legends,
He comes to heal the wounds or to infect them
Keeping us feeling the pain.


Lives are flowing out as grains, slipping from his hands
Falling down into dimples of his sandals’ treads.
The Scourge of Thebes takes our youth away.
Every bone will start turning frail.

Tonight the sun will rise on the western bank of Nile.
To let the Moon highlight the way.
There is no chance to overtake the time.
Nowhere to run from him, the traveler from Thebes.


We are not the first who will turn into dust
The end is not tonight
Tonight

Tonight the sun will rise on the western bank of Nile.
To let the Moon highlight the way
Tonight we’ll built the temple of him
The only thing to stand eternally.