The Egyptians watched a beetle push a ball of dung across the sand and saw the sun being born.
They were not wrong about the shape of it. Every dawn something has to roll the sun up out of the dark, and the scarab does exactly that, head down and relentless, steering its small world of earth. They named the god of it Khepri, from kheper, the verb meaning to become, to come into being, to make yourself out of nothing. A beetle that seemed to rise from the bare ground was, to them, the cleanest proof that life renews itself and asks no one's permission.
So they carved scarabs by the thousand and laid the largest over the heart of the dead, inscribed so the heart would keep faith when it reached the scale. The lowliest insect in the field became the amulet you carried into eternity.
Printed heavy on garment dyed cotton, for the ones who keep rolling the weight uphill and trust the morning to arrive.
