This was supposed to be an upbeat and cheerful note, but I could not fathom the right mood nor find the right material; instead, a poem from the so-called Egyptian Dark Ages, called “The Lamentations of Khakheperraseneb,” fell into my lap, it laments the break-down of harmonic order both in society but also in the relationship to the gods and everything sacred during an era of decline, when the country was ruled by the so-called Hyksos during the 14th dynasty.

The poem is constructed as a dialogue between the author and his heart:

A brave heart in situations of wretchedness is a companion for its lord.

Had I but a heart that knows how to suffer!

Then I would rest upon it.

Then I would heap on it words of wretchedness, so that it would drive away my suffering.

Come, my heart, that I may speak to you and that you may respond to what I say and explain to me what is going on in the land.

This poem was authored by a wab-priest (see explanation below) of Heliopolis, Khakheperraseneb, and it contains a heart-wrenching account of a man who must watch his homeland fall into chaos and see everything he once loved desecrated and destroyed.

I am meditating on what has happened, the state of things that have happened throughout the land; changes are happening - it is not like last year. Each year is more burdensome than its fellow. The land is in uproar, has become what destroys me, has been made into what rests in peace. Truth is put outside, Chaos within the council. The counsels of the Gods are thrown into tumult, and Their directives are neglected. The land is calamity, mourning in every place, towns and districts in woe, and everyone alike is wronged. The back is turned on reverence; the Lords of Silence are violated; morning still happens every day, but the face shrinks from what happens. I shall give voice to these things, for my limbs are weighed down. I am in distress because of my heart. It is a cause of suffering, yet I keep quiet about it!

There is no person free from wrong, and everyone alike is doing it; breasts are saddened; he who commands is as he who is commanded, and yet the hearts of both of them are calm. Each day, one must wake to it. Hearts cannot put it aside; yesterday’s share of it is like today’s, because many imitate it, because of harshness. There is no one clever enough to understand; there is no one angry enough to give voice. Every day, one wakes to suffering. Long and heavy is my anguish. The pauper has no strength to withstand the more powerful man.

Khakheperraseneb also reflects on his need to put this anguish into words, not as an act of vanity but because he wishes that he had read the words of someone going through this before the anguish hit him, and he is therefore telling the reader that these words are supposed to be the source of strength that he never had but needs right now now for those who find themselves in the same predicament in the future:

He says, `If only I had unknown utterances and extraordinary verses, in a new language that does not pass away, free from repetition, without a verse of worn-out speech spoken by the ancestors! I shall wring my body for what is in it, - a release of all my speech. For what is already said can only be repeated; what is said once has been said; this is no vain boast of the ancients’ speech that those who are later should find it good.

No speaker has now spoken yet - may one who will speak now speak and another find what he will speak good! No one has now spoken for a matter spoken afterward, as they did long before. Here is no speaking what is only planned to be said: this is searching after ruin, this is falsehood - there is none who will remember his name to others! I have said these things as I have seen them; from the first generation until those who come after, they are now like what has passed away. If only I knew what was unknown to others, what is still unrepeated. I would speak this, and then my heart would answer me, and I would enlighten it about my anguish. I would unload onto it the weight that is on my back, the utterances that make me helpless. I would announce to it the anguish I feel because of it. I would say "Ah!" on account of my relief

A wab-priest (or wꜥb, meaning "pure one") was an Ancient Egyptian clergyman of the lowest, most foundational rank. They were responsible for the daily, practical maintenance of temples and tombs, including ritual purification, carrying sacred boats during festivals, and supplying offerings to mortuary chapels.

The poem is mainly preserved on a wooden tablet now in the British Museum (BM EA5645 photograph:© The Trustees of the British Museum)

britishmuseum.org/colle…