Chapter 4: The Poetry of the King
The monuments of stone at Abu Simbel tell one story—a story of grandeur, of public devotion, of a king declaring his love for all the world to see. But there is another story, whispered in fragments of papyrus and inscribed on limestone flakes discarded by ancient scribes. It is the story of a man, not merely a pharaoh, who looked upon his queen and found words inadequate to contain what he felt. It is the story of the poetry of Ramses II—verses of such tenderness that they have survived three thousand years to reach us still warm with emotion.
In ancient Egypt, love poetry was not a genre reserved for kings. The workers of Deir el-Medina, the artisans who carved the royal tombs, left behind love songs scratched onto pottery shards. The priests of Thebes composed hymns to desire. But the verses associated with Ramses II are different. They are not abstract celebrations of beauty or formulaic praises of a queen's virtue. They are personal, intimate, and startlingly direct. They read less like royal inscriptions and more like the private thoughts of a man who has fallen deeply, irrevocably in love.
One of the most famous fragments was discovered inscribed on a wall within the precinct of Nefertari's temple at Abu Simbel. It is attributed to Ramses himself, though whether he composed it or commissioned a scribe to capture his sentiments, we cannot know. What matters is the words themselves:
*"My love is unique—no one can rival her, for she is the most beautiful woman alive. Just by passing me, she has stolen my heart."*
The phrasing is remarkable. Ramses does not speak of Nefertari as a queen, as a political asset, or even as the mother of his heirs. He speaks of her as a woman who has captured something essential within him. Her beauty, he claims, is unmatched. But more than that, it is her presence that has undone him. *Just by passing me, she has stolen my heart.* The image is one of vulnerability—a king, accustomed to commanding armies and nations, rendered defenseless by the simple act of his beloved walking by.
Another inscription, found in a temple at Wadi es-Sebua, expands upon this theme with language that borders on the devotional:
*"She is the one who fills the palace with beauty. She is the sun at the prow of the boat of the gods. Her voice is sweet like honey when she speaks. She is the Lady of Grace, beloved of all."*
Here, Ramses elevates Nefertari to the realm of the divine. She is not merely beautiful; she *is* beauty itself, filling the palace with its presence. She is compared to the sun—the very source of life and order in the Egyptian cosmos—riding at the prow of the solar barque that carries the gods across the sky. Her voice is sweet like honey, a sensory detail that suggests intimacy, familiarity, the sound of a voice heard in private chambers away from the formalities of court.
But perhaps the most poignant of the surviving verses is one that speaks not of Nefertari's beauty but of what she means to the king's very existence:
*"I live because she lives. I breathe because she breathes. When I see her, my heart is glad. When she is away, there is no joy in my house."*
These words, found on a fragment of limestone from the workers' village of Deir el-Medina, are unlike anything else in the royal record. The pharaoh was understood to be the living embodiment of Horus, the son of Osiris, the sustainer of Ma'at—cosmic order. To say that he lived because another person lived was to invert the theological hierarchy. It was to admit dependence, vulnerability, a need that transcended the formal structures of kingship.
*When she is away, there is no joy in my house.* The line is devastating in its simplicity. It speaks of absence, of longing, of a love so complete that its absence renders even the palace empty.
These poetic fragments raise an intriguing question: did Ramses himself write them? The answer is lost to history. Egyptian pharaohs were not typically poets; they employed scribes to compose inscriptions that glorified their deeds. But Ramses was unusual in many ways. He was personally involved in the design of his monuments, the selection of inscriptions, the placement of statues. It is not impossible that he dictated these words himself, or even—in moments of private reflection—composed them in his own hand.
Whether he wrote them or commissioned them, the verses bear the unmistakable stamp of genuine emotion. They are not the generic praises of a king fulfilling a political obligation. They are specific, sensory, and deeply personal. They speak of a man who has found something in his wife that transcends duty, alliance, or even the desire for heirs. They speak of love.
The tradition of love poetry in ancient Egypt was rich and varied. Many surviving poems follow a pattern: a lover describes the beloved's beauty, expresses longing, celebrates union. But the verses associated with Ramses and Nefertari stand apart. They lack the formulaic quality of courtly praise. They do not catalogue Nefertari's titles or her lineage. They simply speak of her—her beauty, her voice, her presence, and the emptiness left when she is gone.
In one fragment, the king's voice is almost playful:
*"When I see her coming, I bow my head. I am not the king when she approaches. I am only a man who loves."*
The confession is extraordinary. Ramses II, the greatest of Egyptian pharaohs, the victor of Kadesh, the builder of monuments that would outlast empires, admits that in the presence of his beloved, he sets aside his crown. He is not the king when she approaches. He is only a man who loves.
The poetry of Ramses II was not carved on public monuments in the same way as his military victories. It was inscribed in temples dedicated to Nefertari, on private stelae, on fragments that were never meant for public consumption. It was, perhaps, the truest expression of his heart—words he could not shout from the walls of Karnak but could whisper in the sacred spaces he built for her.
Three thousand years later, these words still reach us. They survive because they were written in stone, yes. But they survive also because they speak to something universal—the experience of being so moved by another person that language becomes both necessary and inadequate. Ramses II built monuments that astonished the world. But in his poetry, he built something rarer: a record of a heart that loved without reserve.
*"Just by passing me, she has stolen my heart."* In the end, that is the legacy of Ramses and Nefertari—not merely statues and temples, but the enduring truth that even a god-king can be undone by love.
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