floating far above old kingdoms,
whipper of those sands when
she flies to the earth beneath
her plane's wings and steps into
the summer of the queens,
coming home
from another world with a pack in
one hand, a brush in another
She'll flush out the stories of her
long-dead mothers. She says
she no longer wants this sun or
these sphinxes, she is ready
for conditioned white halls
beyond sandboxes. When she
builds, her blocks still mirror
the Niles overhead in the
beautiful days of Hatshepsut.
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