Eli sleeping: mysterious as the Sphinx,
and just as silent on our ottoman;
a riddle in a fur coat--no one can
conceive his dreams or fathom what he thinks.
There's ages writ down in those feline genes,
whole histories unknowable to man
told by instinct, and in the graceful plan
of his bones. No human knows what it means.
Perhaps the past is present as he leans
into my stroke, and ancient desert sands
stretch in his arid mind each time he blinks.
As he naps, Babylon rises and then sinks
into the dust. I think he understands
his kind were worshipped by dead kings and queens.
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