Cubit

The cubit, old as desert sand,
A forearm’s span from elbow to hand,
In temples raised and markets bustling,
It measured stone, it measured hustling.

Through Babylon’s bright ziggurat towers,
Through Egypt’s awe‑inspiring powers,
The cubit walked beside the scribe,
A quiet rule, a living tribe.

Now scholars trace its length in ink,
From pharaoh’s thumb to thinker’s blink,
One cubit – roughly half a metre,
A humble yardstick, clear and sweeter.

So when we wander modern streets,
With metric rules and digital beats,
Remember that old, sturdy span –
The cubit, nature’s measuring hand.