The Song of Gilgamesh
Between the ancient river and walls of stone, the bard of Uruk sings to the unnamed that refuses to fade.
Hear me sing—
each breath I draw brings dust within;
my throat, a riverbed gone dry,
cracked beneath the burning sky.
Four thousand years the Euphrates flows,
yet cannot reach the wound below.
The walls of Uruk are only stone;
they hold the outer storm alone.
Within, the desert winds still rise—
no wall can guard the soul inside.
They scour my heart, they haunt me still,
a storm that never leaves, nor will.
The gods gave eagle, wind, and crown,
then took the one who held his ground.
They left me kingdoms, gold, and throne—
a thousand seats, and each one lone.
I ask but for that stride once more,
to stand before me as before;
to break this solitude and rage,
yet neither kneel nor turn away.