and with fine linen, lay it away in a bean-field in bloom. And the ointment, having feasted and eaten together, store purely for the immortalization. And if you wish to show [the god] to another, take juice of the plant called kentritis, smearing it around the eye, whichever you wish,

The beetle's funeral finishes like a person's: wrapped in býssinon, the fine linen of mummy-bandages and priests' robes, and laid away — not in dry ground but in a kyamṓn zōophytoûn, a bean-field 'teeming with life,' in bloom. The dead sun-creature is planted among growing things, buried where life is loudest, so that its burial reads as a sowing. Everything in the recipe bends the same way the whole rite does: death staged as the doorway to more life. Then two human notes close the scarab-working. The ointment is stored only after a feast — hestiásas kai syneuōchētheìs, having dined and shared good cheer — because the making of the sacred is also a meal, a communion, not a lonely lab procedure. And a new use opens: the kentrîtis, a herb whose juice, smeared 'around the eye,' will let another person see the god you have summoned. The rite has been intensely private — 'to me alone,' the whispered formula, the withheld words — and yet here is a technology of shared vision, an eye-salve for the initiate who is judged worthy. The next lines will give this strange plant a full botany; the papyrus, having taught you to meet a god, now tells you where the herb grows.