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I once spoke of a secret room in the halls of ma'at,
and found myself the guardian of it,
for I but watch and observe, I notice the details
which slips below the surface,
intuition is the key and the hole is in solitude,
for the mold is developed there.
But none passes through the door for they all
tell eachother the answers,
like parrots do they fly through the great gate
they have no mind of their own,
for a hive can't share a single peacock feather,
which is that of a Phoenix.
For there is no judgement; but a wishing well
and in the streams below
do our spirits dwell, reborn aeon after aeon
into this mortal flesh,
until we take but last flight without rebirth
leaving only an imprint behind.
This is my last time here; all things have an end
so does existence,
where I am gone, a baby is hatched instead -
I but leave my gift
for the age of the waterbearer to you
when the hour comes.
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