The halls are silent and golden-brown.
Sunlight slants through at late afternoon angles.
No breeze stirs the dust that rests on the floor,
and each moment is warm and still.

And yet I walk forth, the touch of light
on my hand a familiar and welcome heat.
I know this geometry of bright and shadow,
tall walls and not-quite-straight path.

I would return to You, except
You never left me.
I would ask Your forgiveness, but
You never needed to give it.

The halls are the throat of a lion,
and here I belong, living
amidst the heka You speak
and the ma’at we breathe.