How it opens
Dawn came to the sacred grove of Heliopolis like a slow fire catching in the fig leaves.
You had slept badly, as you always did before a feast, with the unfinished hymn turning in your head.
AmeniThe hymn, Pentaur. The king's birthday is tomorrow and you have given me silence.
AmeniSilence in a poet is a fever. In anyone else it is rest.
Choose
The words I have written praise the king. The words I cannot write belong to the poor.
I have written it three times. Each version sounded like a scribe, not a singer.
Give me until the evening sacrifice. If it is not done then, take another poet.