Her Majesty surveys from her tawny palace's balcony.
Her father the Sun cozies her with his light's embrace.
Snow-pale linen enwraps her midnight-dark frame,
A slender build but her curves are gentle.
Gold and gems gleam around her neck and arms,
But her cobra-hood crown burns brightest of all.
Her Majesty leans against the columned railing.
Fishers' reed rafts bob on the dazzling Nile,
While crocodiles slither past the ranting hippos.
Papyrus and palms sway along the black banks.
The kingdom's young crop rests below the water's edge.
Mud hut villages chatter in two tongues.
They are the voices of men and the thumping of drums.
Her Majesty inhales the sweet lotus scent.
The twin towers of the temples' pylon gates
Sting her eyes with their holy white glow.
Among these the obelisks point skyward,
Spears of stone engraved with pictures.
Highest of all rise her ancestors' tombs.
These limestone mountains have golden peaks.
Her Majesty sighs with tears glossing her cheeks.
She brings the floods forth and drives the barbarians back.
Her people chant their praises to her divinity.
They all claim to love and thank her.
Yet no one dares step near his or her goddess.
Men may gaze and whistle at her beauty.
But none want a wife with all the power.
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