Fame haunts the man who visits hell, who lives to tell my entire tale identically.
So like a sage, a trickster or saint, Gilgamesh was a hero who knew secrets and saw forbidden places, who could even speak of the time before the Flood because he lived long, learned much, and spoke his life to those who first cut into clay his bird-like words.
He commanded walls for Uruk and for Eanna, our holy ground, walls that you can see still; walls were weep the weary widows of dead soldiers.
Go to them and touch their immovable presence with gentle finger to find yourself. No one else ever built such walls.
Climb Uruk's Tower and walk about on a windy night.
Look. Touch. Taste. Sense.
What force creates such mass?
Open up the special box that's hidden in the wall and read aloud the story of Gilgamesh's life.
Learn what sorrow taught him; learn of those he overcame by wit or force or fear as he, a town's best child, acted nobly in the way one should to lead and acted wisely too as one who sought on fame.
