Gilgamesh’s return and the reckoning of wisdom

So Gilgamesh, with empty hand,
returned at last to mortal land.
No plant of life, no sacred charm—
just calloused feet and weathered arm.

The snake had stolen the living root,
his hopes undone beneath its boot.
No second chance, no sacred breath—
just days that marched toward certain death.

But Uruk stood, its walls still high,
its towers brushing against the sky.
And in those stones, he saw his name,
not godhood's flame, but mortal fame.

He turned and spoke to none but air:
“O winds, be witness. Time, beware.
Though flesh must fade and blood grow still,
a city stands by human will.

Not gods, not dreams, nor deathless kings—
but hands that carve and voices sing.
In every stone and every stair,
I leave my soul—I leave it there.”

And so he carved upon the gate
the tale of loss, the weight of fate.
No longer king, no longer god—
just one who'd wept and walked where trod

no man before, nor since with ease—
a soul that questioned, bruised by trees
of cedar, stars, and serpent's guile—
and found in death, a life worthwhile.