they see him, and they stare. the mighty among them look on and despair. how many shocks will one sunrise bring? but such is the way of the desert’s first king.
for Sphynx is a lion beneath the man-mask, and this answers a question few ever did ask. whose lands are these where the red earth meets black? they belong to the prince who put preyed to the pack.
few is no none, as each view is some sun. the rumbling of his rise has brought us near, a purring in the deeper earth we tilt our heads to hear. we place ourselves in his sight, and our tails slowly sway. we stand in the light, and our spinal curves say:
here we are. each star is ours to ponder; each wind, a wor[l]d we wander, one heard as we linger alongside the herd, one spun out of substance sun-heated, well-heeded. our noses know well what is nascent and needed.
with stretches none mistake for bows we welcome the collosalion, and perceiving the purpose in his steps we roar the sanction due sun’scion:
beyond particular and perpendicular, before surprise and after sorrow, from all the western yesterdays to every eastomorrow, we commit to our course, whether h[a]unt, howl, or hide–and that is all any need know of our pride.