Egyptian Sunrise

Athens, Georgia

February 8, 201; revised April 23, 2014

A memory of Egypt, May 1982. Dedicated to the youth of Egypt.

Forgive me Amal, not knowing     

your name, but it could not

arise in our improvised

game, that two-penny drama

played three decades past

When we came to

Upper Kingdom elegance,

peers of a genteel breed

served thick bitter coffee

in tiny cups with a side

of sugar. Such a gracious land

Of ruins and restaurants

fallucas on the Nile, sunsets

deep red with the dust of Sahara.

Of gentle dawns by slow waters 

lapping riverbank reeds 

where slave women once hid

baskets from Pharaoh’s baleful

gaze. The Pharaoh’s eyes

Still gaze unblinking

as he worships the gray

god Stability, secured

with burnt offerings –

the soul of a kingdom

locked down and torn

by the call of the dollar

and the call of the muezzin

In a mean land of dirt

and bribes, where swarms

of flies sip tears about

the soft brown eyes

of passive babes, born

to lives of hustling squalor.

Of grade school entrepreneurs

  

Like you, Amal, rude son

of the Lower Kingdom,

your dark eyes discerning

where an impulse to kindness

might be mobilized to sustain

Another day trolling tourists,

trading dignity for dollars

on dry sandstone bluffs

where must-see monuments

mark slow millennia

above the sprawl of Cairo.

You latched to us like desert flies

and even though we meant you

well, my bride and I could brook

no urge to mount tame camels

and make cheap postcards

to please people back home.

So we tipped you a bit to be

on your way, but please 

And no are just weak

bids, and kind rejection

signals softness to sons

of Egypt, ever working

the tourist for just a bit

more. Dignity is a divide,

and no do-overs can bridge

culture and time. In the end

Amal, what is a pyramid

but a large pile of rock

burdened with too much

history? And what is man

that Thou art mindful of him?
Of you, Amal. Even you.

So if I could return

I would take you aside,

buy you bitter coffee,

the sweetest bread

and know a new soul,

both yours and my own.

I had not then read

Les Mis, or surely

would have recognized

le brun petit Gavroche,

so charming on the page,

but God help the mighty

When you turn your attention

from tourist to master

and meet the gaze of Pharaoh.

Did I see your son in Tahrir

Square, standing with the young

elite? Was that your girl

who turned a bronze cheek

To reclaim the honor

of Egypt? Dream big,

Amal, but know the score –

pathways to liberty

are negotiated on the back

of tigers that care not

For your dreams.

They leave youthful

bodies, empty fathers

and hollow mothers

who nevermore live

whole. So be whole

Amal, bold child

Of the human tribe.

May we meet once

more on the trembling

bridge that links time
and faith. Let me

shake your hand
this time around.