Anonymous (Akkadian) · a new plain-English translation from the Akkadian
Siduri the tavern-keeper, who dwells by the edge of the sea, dwells there […] […]. She has vats, she has […] […]; she is wrapped in a wrap and veiled in a […] veil. Gilgamesh drew near to her, […] […], clothed in a skin, filled with dread […]. He carried the flesh of the gods in his body, and grief was in his belly; his face was like that of one who has journeyed a long road. The tavern-keeper looked at him from afar, and she said in her heart, taking counsel with herself:
"Who knows—perhaps this is one who has slain the wild bulls? Where then is he heading straight for my door?" When she saw him, the tavern-keeper barred her door; she barred her door and went up onto the roof. But he took heed, Gilgamesh, toward […]; he lifted his chin and set his face toward her. Gilgamesh spoke to the tavern-keeper: "Tavern-keeper, what did you see that you barred your door? You barred your door and went up onto the roof. I will smash the door, I will break the bolt — […] […] […] in the open country."
The tavern-keeper spoke to Gilgamesh: "[…] […] I have barred my door, […] I have gone up onto the roof. […] let me learn your way." Gilgamesh spoke to her: "[Enkidu, my friend] […], who together with me climbed the mountains, seized the Bull of Heaven and slew it, brought Humbaba, who dwelt in the cedar forest, to ruin, and killed lions in the mountain passes." The tavern-keeper spoke to Gilgamesh: "If you and Enkidu are the ones who slew the guardian,
who brought Humbaba, who dwelt in the cedar forest, to ruin, who killed lions in the mountain passes, who seized the Bull of Heaven and slew it, the one who came down from heaven — why are your cheeks sunken, your face bowed low, your heart wretched, your features wasted, why is there grief in your belly, why does your face resemble that of one who has journeyed a long road, why are your features frost-bitten and sun-scorched, and why do you roam the wild wearing the look of a lion?" Gilgamesh spoke to her: "Tavern-keeper, why should my cheeks not be sunken, my face not bowed low,
[…] why should my heart not be wretched, my features not wasted, why should there not be grief in my belly, why should my face not resemble that of one who has journeyed a long road, why should my features not be frost-bitten and sun-scorched, and why should I not roam the wild wearing the look of a lion? […] My friend, the wild mule on the run, the donkey of the mountain, the panther of the open country — Enkidu, my friend, the wild mule on the run, the donkey of the mountain, the panther of the open country — my friend whom I loved so dearly, who went with me through every hardship, Enkidu, my friend whom I loved so dearly, who went with me through every hardship — […] the fate of mankind has overtaken him. […] For six days and seven nights I wept for him; I did not give him up for burial, until a maggot dropped from his nose.
I was afraid […] […]. I feared death, and so I roam the wild. My friend's words weigh heavy upon me; I roam the wild on the distant road. Enkidu my friend's words weigh heavy upon me; I roam the distant path in the wild. How can I stay silent, how can I be still? My friend whom I loved has turned to clay — Enkidu, my friend whom I loved, has turned to clay. Must not I too, like him, lie down and never rise again, forever and ever?" Gilgamesh spoke to the tavern-keeper:
"Now then, tavern-keeper, which is the way to Utnapishtim? What are its markers — give them to me! Give them to me, give me its markers! If it may be done, I will cross the sea; if it may not be done, I will roam the wild." The tavern-keeper spoke to Gilgamesh: "Never, Gilgamesh, has there been a crossing, and no one since days of old has crossed the sea. It is Shamash the hero who crosses the sea — other than Shamash, who can cross it? The crossing is hard, its path is very hard, and midway lie the waters of death that bar the way.
And even if, Gilgamesh, you should cross the sea, when you reach the waters of death, what then would you do? Gilgamesh, there is Urshanabi, the boatman of Utnapishtim, and with him are the Stone Ones, who gather urnu-plants in the forest. Go, then, and let him see your face. If it may be done, cross with him; if it may not be done, turn back." When Gilgamesh heard this, he took up the axe in his hand, he drew the sword from his belt, he crept forward and came down upon them, and like an arrow he fell in among them.
In the depths of the forest a sound cracked out. Urshanabi saw it and was wrapped in its terrible radiance. Gilgamesh raised the axe and it shuddered before him, and he struck […] its head, Gilgamesh. He seized its hands and […] its chest. And the stone-things had sealed the boat, those that never feared the waters of death, […] the wide sea. In the waters […] he held back. He smashed the stone-things and cast them into the river, […] the boat, and […] he sat down on the bank.
Gilgamesh said to him, to Urshanabi the boatman: "[…] you carry, you tremble […] […] you." Urshanabi said to him, to Gilgamesh: "Why are your cheeks sunken, your face downcast? Why is your heart wretched, your features wasted? Why is there grief in your belly? Why is your face like that of one who has walked a long, distant road? Why is your face weathered by frost and by heat, and why do you wear the face of a lion and roam the steppe?" Gilgamesh said to him, to Urshanabi the boatman: "Why should my cheeks not be sunken, my face not downcast?
Why should my heart not be wretched, my features not wasted? Why should there not be grief in my belly? Why should my face not be like that of one who has walked a long, distant road? Why should my face not be weathered by frost and by heat, and why should I not wear the face of a lion and roam the steppe? My friend, the fleet mule, the wild ass of the mountain, the panther of the steppe — Enkidu, my friend, the fleet mule, the wild ass of the mountain, the panther of the steppe — together we climbed the mountain, together we seized the Bull of Heaven and killed it, we destroyed Humbaba who dwelt in the cedar forest, in the passes of the mountain we slew lions — my friend, whom I loved so deeply, who went with me through every hardship,
Enkidu, my friend, whom I loved so deeply, who went with me through every hardship — the fate of mankind overtook him. For six days and seven nights I wept for him. I did not give him up for burial, until a maggot fell from his nose. I was afraid […]. I feared death, and now I roam the steppe. The word of my friend weighs upon me; I roam a distant road on the steppe. The word of Enkidu my friend weighs upon me; I roam a distant path on the steppe. How can I be silent, how can I be still?
My friend whom I loved has turned to clay. Enkidu, my friend whom I loved, has turned to clay. Shall I not be like him, and lie down too, never to rise again, forever and ever?" Gilgamesh said to him, to Urshanabi the boatman: "Now, Urshanabi, which is the road to Utnapishtim? What are its markers — give them to me! Give them to me, let me have its markers! If it can be done, I will cross the sea; if it cannot, I will roam the steppe." Urshanabi said to him, to Gilgamesh: "Your own hands, Gilgamesh, have kept you from the crossing —
you smashed the stone-things, you cast them into the river. The stone-things are smashed, and the … is not gathered. Lift up the axe in your hand, Gilgamesh; go down to the forest and cut punting-poles, each of five rods, three hundred of them; trim them, fit them with knobs, and bring them […]." When Gilgamesh heard this, he lifted the axe in his hand, drew the sword from his belt, went down to the forest and cut punting-poles, each of five rods, three hundred of them; he trimmed them, fitted them with knobs, and brought them, and […].
Gilgamesh and Urshanabi boarded the boat; they launched the magillu-boat and embarked upon it. In three days they traveled the distance of a month and a half, and Urshanabi arrived at the waters of death. Urshanabi said to him, to Gilgamesh: "Take up one punting-pole, Gilgamesh — let your hand not touch the waters of death […]. Take a second, a third, and a fourth punting-pole, Gilgamesh. Take a fifth, a sixth, and a seventh punting-pole, Gilgamesh. Take an eighth, a ninth, and a tenth punting-pole, Gilgamesh. Take an eleventh and a twelfth punting-pole, Gilgamesh." With twice sixty poles Gilgamesh had used them all up.
Then he, Urshanabi, loosened his garment. Gilgamesh tore off his clothing and with his arms raised it as a mast. Utnapishtim was gazing into the distance; he pondered, and spoke a word to himself, taking counsel with his own heart: "Why are the stone-things of the boat smashed, and one who is not its owner riding upon it? The one who comes is not a man of mine, and on the right […]. I look, and he is not a man of mine. I look, and he is not a man of mine."
I keep looking, and […] … […] … […] not mine […] they grew rank […] the boatman […] a man who looks, will not […] whoever looks will not … […] perhaps a snake … […] … […] cedar-resin? … […] Gilgamesh approached the quay […]
He brought it down, and it rose up again … […] Gilgamesh said to him, to Utnapishtim: "May you live long, Utnapishtim, son of Ubar-Tutu! […] … after the flood which … […] the flood, why … […] […] Utnapishtim said to him, to Gilgamesh: "Why are your cheeks sunken, your face cast down, your heart wretched, your features wasted, why is there grief in your belly, why does your face resemble one who has gone a long, distant road,
why is your face burned by frost and heat, and why do you roam the wild wearing the look of a lion?" Gilgamesh said to him, to Utnapishtim: "Why should my cheeks not be sunken, my face not cast down, why should my heart not be wretched, my features not wasted, why should there not be grief in my belly, why should my face not resemble one who has gone a long, distant road, why should my face not be burned by frost and heat, why should I not roam the wild wearing the look of a lion? My friend, the fleet mule, the wild ass of the mountain, the panther of the wild — Enkidu, my friend, the fleet mule, the wild ass of the mountain, the panther of the wild — who joined together with me, who climbed the mountains together,
who together seized and slew the Bull of Heaven, who destroyed Humbaba who dwelt in the Cedar Forest, who in the mountain passes killed lions — my friend, whom I loved so deeply, who went with me through every hardship, Enkidu, my friend, whom I loved so deeply, who went with me through every hardship — the fate of mankind overtook him. For six days and seven nights I wept for him; I did not give him up for burial, until a worm dropped from his nose. I was afraid. I have come to dread death, and so I roam the wild. The word of my friend weighs on me;
I roam the wild on a long road. The word of Enkidu my friend weighs upon me; I roam a distant path through the wild. How can I be silent, how can I be still? My friend whom I loved has turned to clay — Enkidu, my friend whom I loved, has turned to clay. And shall not I, too, lie down like him, and never rise again, forever and ever?" Gilgamesh said to him, to Utnapishtim: "I thought I would journey there, that I might see Utnapishtim, the Distant One, of whom men speak. I roamed and traversed all the lands; I crossed over difficult mountains;
I crossed over all the seas. Sweet sleep has not softened my face; through sleeplessness I have wearied myself. I have filled my sinews with grief. What have I gained by my toil? Before I could even reach the tavern-keeper's side, my clothing was consumed. I have killed bear, hyena, lion, panther, tiger, deer, ibex, the beasts and creatures of the wild; their flesh I ate, their skins I flayed. Let the door of sorrow be shut, sealed with pitch and bitumen against me, for as for me, no more joy … […]
as for me, no more gladness … […]" Utnapishtim said to him, to Gilgamesh: "Why, Gilgamesh, do you prolong grief? You who were made from the flesh of gods and of men, you for whom your father and your mother made […] Was a household ever built for a fool, O Gilgamesh? They set up a throne in the assembly and bid him sit, but a fool is given only dregs of beer instead of butter, coarse fat instead of fine oil, only bran and coarse meal like […], clothed in a rag like […] and a loincloth for a sash, for lack of one who advises him,
for lack of wise counsel … […] Gilgamesh has raised his own head […] their lord, as many as … […] […] … […] the moon and the gods of night? […] By night the moon goes forth […] the gods grew weary and troubled […] the awakened one is not driven back … […] since it was set … […] you, take thought, and … […] your companionship … […] if Gilgamesh, the house of the gods, its provider? […]
[…] the house of goddesses […] the two of them […] the gods […] to […] he made […] […] for a gift […] […] he will set down […] […] […] […] his innards […] […] one who adorns […] […] humanity […] they took for his fate […] you kept vigil — what did you gain by it?
From wakefulness you have worn yourself out; you have filled your sinews with grief; you bring your far-off days nearer. Mankind, whose name is snapped off like a reed in the canebrake — the handsome young man, the lovely young woman — death carries them off before their time. No one sees death, no one sees the face of death, no one hears the voice of death, yet savage death is the one who snaps mankind off. Do we build a nest forever? Do we ever build a home?
Do brothers forever divide an inheritance? Does hatred forever endure in the land? Does the river forever rise and carry the flood? The dragonfly drifts on the river, its face gazing upon the face of the sun — and then, all at once, there is nothing. The sleeper and the dead are just like one another; they do not draw the picture of death. The dead does not greet a man in the land. The Anunnaki, the great gods, gathered in assembly; Mammitum, who fashions destiny, decreed destinies together with them: they established death and they established life.
But the day of death they did not make known.