From my beak flows words of wit and wisdom
My talons inscribe hieroglyphs in the constantly shifting sands
But no man can understand my words
And my hieroglyphs soon disappear

A scribe without a pen with which to write
A poet and philosopher with no one to hear my
words
But I can scratch symbols in the sands
And prophesize to the raging dust storms

Feathers of sun-bleached white, ne’er changing for winter
Wise, knowing eyes, dark and reflective
Watching and waiting for passers by
Noting how slowly Time doth seem to fly

A bird of death, they call me
When I fly away from my home
So I return to the Nile
And yet, ever do I roam

I weigh their hearts against the Feather of Truth
And they wait, fearing or not fearing, for the outcome
I am the Keeper of Truths, the Scribe of the Gods
I am the wise, wise bird alike to Thoth