At the edge of the Giza Plateau, where desert winds whisper through centuries of dust, stands the Great Sphinx — carved from a single limestone outcrop over 4,500 years ago, during the reign of Pharaoh Khafre (c. 2558–2532 BCE).

Rising 20 meters high and stretching 73 meters long, this half-human, half-lion sentinel gazes eternally eastward, toward the sunrise over the Nile.

The pH๏τograph, taken in the late 19th century during early excavations led by Gaston Maspero and Émile Baraize, captures the moment when the Sphinx’s buried body first re-emerged from millennia of sand. Its surface, eroded yet proud, bears the marks of tools and storms — a fusion of engineering and mystery.

The limestone core reveals ancient quarry lines, while traces of pigment hint that the Sphinx was once vividly painted. More than monument, it is myth in stone — a riddle of endurance, watching empires rise and vanish beneath its silent stare. Standing before it, one feels both dwarfed and elevated — a reminder that civilizations fade, but wonder does not.