I am the vision of the oracle
Whereupon lies the sumit
The temple house of Inana
The mountain peak of the Ziggarut
Where is the flame reciving
There in turn giveth
Sacrifices burnt or prayers heard
The adjudicator priestly
Where was seen the riches and deliverance
There arrives the invocation of the goddess
Eyes of crimson, idol of ivory artisan
Golden horned, known of afar
Eight pointed star, celestial anointed
With the seven sacred powers
I was looking into Mesopotamia and felt a bit inspired by the world’s earliest recorded poet and her goddess. I’ve included both the architecture and motifs that came to be associated with the cult of Ishtar
Solemn, the pharaoh floats downriver. The words come before the image. Did you know that ever year the pharaohs would descend before the crowds and offer the river their seed?
The ritual doesn’t concern me as much as the idea that you would need to offer life to the river, the one that’s feed you, the one who’s end you cannot begin to see. Could you oblige it, to serve the dusty oasis from where you came?
Somehow long after your language has been forgotten the river still flows. Is it really the same one that feed an entire civilization, the same one the pharaoh offered tribute too? It seems to have forgotten everything, while rocks are worn away and a Spinx stares out at sometime we can’t see.
It’s a mirror to the after life, where you might live forever. No, it’s something more than that, it’s conjoined, said their religion, inextricably linked to the dead who pass through the river. Long after they’ve gone the souls of the dead are still weighed as the river flows.