The Western Gate

Commentary to : the Library of Thoth
The as yet untranslated histories of the people of the Levant, Sumerian, predating the Epic of Gilgamesh.
The ledgers and census reports, internal memo’s between the declining Roman empire taskmasters and how they would adopt the growing insurgent religion and call it their own, The holy Roman church.
The, likewise early books, reports and manuals from that time in the vaults of the Vatican.
The final days of the demise of Atlantis, their chronicled history and customs.
The Oracles of the Priests and Priestesses of MAat in antiquity, how they were gifted the knowledge of the Qabbbalh which handed down was taken by the God- king Ra-Moses, who exiled into the wilderness with the architects and master builders to create his new culture.
I imagine all the books I’d want to read are in the category of conspiracy.
I’d like to read the journals and hand written grimoires, the unpublished.
The scribblings of the cult leaders, the etchings of the pariahs and outcasts. The poetry of unheard beautiful minds, maverick, renegades and
silenced.

—

The Library of Thoth

I imagine, if I may, the first books breathing,
Levantine dust in the lungs of unlettered clay,
Sumer before Gilgamesh learned the trick of grieving,
When history was wet-mouthed, unnamed, and astray.
Tablets dreaming themselves into law and weather,
Census of stars, of fields, of the counted dead,
All untranslated, murmuring before and ever.

I imagine Rome in its administrative twilight,
Ink-thin taskmasters with trembling imperial hands,
Writing memos to gods as the old ones lose their right,
Adopting an insurgent faith to steady their lands.
Minutes of power where belief is repackaged,
Filed under mercy, authority, eternal decree,
A church born quietly in corridors of damage.

I imagine the Vatican vaults breathing colder,
Manuals of doctrine still raw with dissent,
Early reports where miracles are negotiated sober,
And holiness audited for long-term intent.
Atlantis falls with a librarian’s patience,
Its customs footnoted as the sea takes the floor,
Blue archives closing with ceremonial silence.

I imagine Ma’at’s priests in the heat of the balance,
Oracles threading the Qabbalah through flame,
Secrets handed down in ritual cadence,
To Ra-Moses leading builders into exile and name.
All books I crave wear the badge of conspiracy:
Cult leaders’ journals, mad diagrams, maverick verse,
Pariahs’ etchings—bright minds erased by history’s curse.