They call the room the king’s,
But no one knows a name
Or a true function. (The room exists,
That’s all the scholars really know.)
We enter like mice, emerging from a corner
After a long climb.
The way up was a ramp of wood, cleated
To offer foothold. We, fitting ourselves
To the low constricted passage, walked contorted.
Under the gallery’s stone sky, we walked upright
But dwarfed. At passage’s end, after two iron rungs,
Again, we crouched.
Souls were tested in this room. Ceremony
Filled it with astral images we will never know,
Creating, employing, dissolving forms, leaving,
For those without eyes to see, only an empty room
And a stone sarcophagus (as the scholars name it).