He was the sort of man
　　who wouldn't hurt a fly.
　　Many flies are now alive
　　while he is not.
　　He was not my patron.
　　He preferred full granaries, I battle.
　　My roar meant slaughter.
　　Yet here we are together
　　in the same museum.
　　That's not what I see, though, the fitful
　　crowds of staring children
　　learning the lesson of multi-
　　cultural obliteration, sic transit
　　and so on.
　　
　　I see the temple where I was born
　　or built, where I held power.
　　I see the desert beyond,
　　where the hot conical tombs, that look
　　from a distance, frankly, like dunces' hats,
　　hide my jokes: the dried-out flesh
　　and bones, the wooden boats
　　in which the dead sail endlessly
　　in no direction.
　　
　　What did you expect from gods
　　with animal heads?
　　Though come to think of it
　　the ones made later, who were fully human
　　were not such good news either.
　　Favour me and give me riches,
　　destroy my enemies.
　　That seems to be the gist.
　　Oh yes: And save me from death.
　　In return we're given blood
　　and bread, flowers and prayer,
　　and lip service.
　　
　　Maybe there's something in all of this
　　I missed. But if it's selfless
　　love you're looking for,
　　you've got the wrong goddess.
　　
　　I just sit where I'm put, composed
　　of stone and wishful thinking:
　　that the deity who kills for pleasure
　　will also heal,
　　that in the midst of your nightmare,
　　the final one, a kind lion
　　will come with bandages in her mouth
　　and the soft body of a woman,
　　and lick you clean of fever,
　　and pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck
　　and caress you into darkness and paradise.