Walking on the banks of a once-river
I saw a familiar gaze
A woman draped with brown and green
Carrying a branch as her staff, though dried
Her hair, dishevelled; her walk, erratic
Stumbled on a tiny yet persistent rock
“Perhaps one of the survivors,” I monologued
Seeing her pitiful figure hurts me
Why? I do not know…

Watching her struggle, I decided to help her
I came to her side and held her arm—metallic
Is she a woman? A machine? I do not know…

Then silently, I followed her
And noticed a black ooze following her, too
I felt nauseous
She spoke, but in such a strange language that I know not
Yet so, I felt I understood everything
I felt her speaking of her pain
Her struggles
Her cries
Her cries…

Then I held her other hand
The hand of flesh and blood
And saw her memory:

I saw her, raped by men
Men of influence, men of power
Men that she loved
Kept her captive, kept her alive
She wanted to die, but can’t
She tried to warn the men to stop, screamed
But they just see the pleasure of it all
Until one day, it happened
She lost her sanity and murdered the men
Her abuser became the abused
She was Bast, and now she is Sekhmet
She has become Death

For the next half-hour, I just stared at the nothingness of the dark…

Then, she rose, showing her multi-armed form,
moved her lips beside my ear, whispered;
“I did not cry for myself. I cried for you…”