Tutankhamun Poem by Joseph S. Josephides

They search where and how my death was done:
as they say, Vizier Aye hit my head with a hammer
while I was sleeping, for I was too young to be a king.
Did General Horemheb kill me, so as to rule alone?
Maybe my escort on my chariot with his sword,
the blood stains over my broken skull consist a proof.
One says I slipped and my fall caused my death
since I cannot balance on my feet when standing,
another witness says I was abused by archeologists,
the time they were brutally pulling my mummy out.

Yet, nobody has ever dealt with my youth:
I became king at my eight, with no friends to play,
no time for learning, not even for an outing, only
on platform ready for wars, until I was eighteen.

Please inform me about my love Ankhesenamun.
Why they ignore? Did they kidnap her when I died?
I care less if I’m losing a kingdom with its full glory,
it bothers me that our world is charmed by shallow
things, romances in screens with supposedly heroes,
non-existent like Romeo and Juliet. But we existed.

The love from Cyprus* has never reached them.
As for us, our painter has immortalized the truth:
our hands are united, our gaze is our mutual oath.