A poem of Enkidu’s death and his vision of the underworld

Enkidu lay on a woven mat,
his voice a thread, his soul grown flat.
Once lion-limbed, he now grew cold,
his fingers curling like leaves grown old.

“I dreamed,” he said, “and death drew near,
a house of dust, a hall of fear.
The sky went dark, the wind turned red,
and eagle hands pulled me from bed.

They flew me down to doors of stone,
where no light lived, and none walk alone.
The keeper there, with lion’s head,
stripped off my crown and filled me with dread.

He led me in. The gate swung wide.
I saw pale kings laid side by side.
The priests, the warriors, all the same—
no names, no fire, no memory, no flame.

They ate of clay, they drank stale tears,
their days the length of vanished years.
Their wings were ash, their robes were dust,
their thrones long rusted through with rust.

And I—Enkidu—once wild and free,
will lie beneath this withered tree.
Not for the forest, nor Bull we slew,
but for the pride we never knew.”

He turned to Gilgamesh, eyes gone dim:
“My brother—how the gods judged him.
But still I grieve not for my fate,
but that I leave you desolate.”

Then silence claimed the hero’s breath,
and clay returned to claim its death.
Gilgamesh knelt, his cry unbound,
as stars fell dumbly to the ground.