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The doors of the horizon open up and the mother, the star, the inundation, the hot and cold wind of the desert, the sweet and reclining cow with beautiful mother’s eyes. The sky is wide and open and she looks down, gentle smiling on sleeping pyramids, dark sweet fingers. The clean new papyrus of a new year. The green growth between her horns as the waters of renewal run over her hooves.

There are sacred mothers all over this world, all throughout time forwards and backwards, and she is one and all of them. She moves though hidden chambers lit by gold and red paint, through the hidden places, through the soft and sensual mud of the flood, through angular symbols painted on shaped stone. She is the new year. She is ancient.

She washes the bodies of the dead kings and then takes them to the god road, across the Duat. Remember? All of life and all of death.