In the heart of the land, where pyramids reign, Dwells a bishop so holy, bereft of all vain. In the realm of the forgotten, where sands of time blow, There he cultivates faith, in the shadows of the Pharaoh.
Egypt’s tapestry woven, with threads of divinity, He, a stitch unseen, serves with humility. An envoy of Heaven, in a world that’s forgot, His prayers echo in silence, in his desolate plot.
Once vestments of silk, now but simple raiment, A visage that carries, neither pride nor lament. His cathedral, the dunes; his choir, the wind, The stars his congregation, as twilight rescinds.
Holy is he, in the ebb and the flow, Sacred whispers carry, where the Nile’s waters go. The moonlight’s his scripture, his sermon, the sun, Unseen, unforgotten by the world overrun.
Irony exists, in this land of old kings, His heart filled with love, though he owns not a thing. Cloaked in humility, his wisdom profound, His voice echoes softly, though the world hears not a sound.
His words, they are prayers, woven in rhyme, Sculpted by silence, as old as time. In the heart of the desert, under the sapphire sky, Lives a forgotten bishop, with a spirit that won’t die.
He preaches of love, of faith, and of loss, His life, a testament, like Christ on the cross. In his solitude, he finds divine connection, In his silence, he hears God’s own reflection.
So let not the world forget this man, Who serves in shadows, as only the forgotten can. In the heart of Egypt, amidst sand and stone, Lives a holy bishop, in God’s light alone.