Nothing left of Intefmose except a few damaged
statues, a broken stela, the foundations of a
mudbrick funerary chapel, the shaft tomb that was
maybe his, a coffin disappeared into the bowels
of the British Museum, never recovered.
And yet, briefly, he was there, at the court
of the Dual King in Thebes of the Hundred
Gates (not during one of its more illustrious
periods, we must admit, Dual Kings ruling
halves of land), the son, brother and uncle
of kings, brief kings, three generations ruling
in twenty years. Surely he was at reach of
the throne, heartbeat or two away, once.
But then, death. And burial in sight
of a nephew's little pyramid - or did
the pyramid (just walls on the ground,
now), come after Intefmose had been
put in his tomb, safe for over a century?
Until future came with its own corpses
needing resting places and remembrance,
and his gave way. And at some point,
tomb robbers, but whatever was taken
must have been a paltry thing, compared
to those taken from tombs of greater
dynasties. Yet, his name lives, fragment
of his life in broken pieces. This
is the immortal life of Intefmose,
justified, uncounted among
the Lords of the West.
26.05.2024
#Poem Poem #Poems Poems #Poetry Poetry #Verse Verse
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