A poetic retelling of the Cedar Forest battle from the Epic of Gilgamesh

They stood at the edge where the tall trees spoke,
where the wind wore perfume and the silence broke.
Cedar trunks towered like ribs of the sky—
ancient and sacred, too proud to die.

“Here lies Humbaba,” Enkidu said,
“Guardian made from fire and dread.
He serves the gods with breath of flame—
not beast, nor man, but death with a name.”

But Gilgamesh, bright with untamed pride,
clutched his axe and would not hide.
“I fear no god,” he said to the trees,
“I carve my fate on every breeze.”

They stepped through roots like grasping hands,
through shadow-thick and trembling lands.
The birds fell silent. The light turned cold.
Then came the growl that broke the mold.

From mist and smoke, Humbaba rose—
his face a blaze, his eyes like crows.
The air grew thick, the forest knelt.
Even Enkidu, wild-born, felt

his heart thump hard like a war drum’s beat.
But Gilgamesh did not retreat.
He called on Shamash, god of sun,
and arrows rained until it was done.

Humbaba cried, “Spare me! I plead!
I guarded trees—I did no deed!”
His terror poured, his flame grew pale,
but mercy failed beneath the veil.

Enkidu said, “Strike—let none remain.
If he lives, the gods will send us pain.”
And so the axe, with final word,
fell like a curse the heavens heard.

The forest wept. The cedars sighed.
The sacred heart of Earth had died.
They chopped the trees for mortal fame,
and built with wood a kingly name.

But smoke remembers. So does ash.
The gods would answer in a flash.
And in that grove where giants fell,
the wind still warns, and roots still tell.