They search where and how my death was done: <br />as they say, Vizier Aye hit my head with a hammer <br />while I was sleeping, for I was too young to be a king. <br />Did General Horemheb kill me, so as to rule alone? <br />Maybe my escort on my chariot with his sword, <br />the blood stains over my broken skull consist a proof. <br />One says I slipped and my fall caused my death <br />since I cannot balance on my feet when standing, <br />another witness says I was abused by archeologists, <br />the time they were brutally pulling my mummy out. <br /> <br />Yet, nobody has ever dealt with my youth: <br />I became king at my eight, with no friends to play, <br />no time for learning, not even for an outing, only <br />on platform ready for wars, until I was eighteen. <br /> <br />Please inform me about my love Ankhesenamun. <br />Why they ignore? Did they kidnap her when I died? <br />I care less if I’m losing a kingdom with its full glory, <br />it bothers me that our world is charmed by shallow <br />things, romances in screens with supposedly heroes, <br />non-existent like Romeo and Juliet. But we existed. <br /> <br />The love from Cyprus* has never reached them. <br />As for us, our painter has immortalized the truth: <br />our hands are united, our gaze is our mutual oath.<br /><br />Joseph S. Josephides<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tutankhamun-2/
