He who saw the Wellspring, the foundation of the land, who knew the ways, was wise in all things: Gilgamesh, who saw the Wellspring, the foundation of the land, who knew the ways, was wise in all things.

He explored the world's frontiers, and brought back tidings from the time before the Flood. He walked a long road, was weary, in need of peace, and carved on a stele of stone his complete trials.

He built the wall of Uruk the sheepfold, of holy Eanna, the sacred sanctuary. Look at its wall which gleams like copper, inspect its inner wall, the like of which no one can equal! Climb the staircase of antiquity, draw near to Eanna, the seat of Ishtar.

Gilgamesh was majestic in appearance, terrifying in power. Two-thirds of him was divine, one-third was human. The form of his body was beyond compare.

The people of Uruk cried out to the gods: 'Gilgamesh leaves no son to his father, day and night his arrogance knows no bounds! Yet he is king, shepherd of his city, fierce and wise!'

The goddess Aruru heard their complaint. She washed her hands, took a pinch of clay, and dropped it into the wilderness. In the wild she created valiant Enkidu, born of silence, formed by Ninurta. His hair was long like grain, he ate grass with the gazelles, and drank at the waterholes with the wild beasts.

Enkidu entered Uruk, the city of broad avenues. The young men of Uruk marveled at his strength: 'He is like Gilgamesh in stature, tall as a cedar, strong as a meteorite!'

At the marriage house, Enkidu stood before the doorway and blocked the way with his foot. Gilgamesh approached in fury. They grappled like bulls, shattering the doorposts; the walls shook to their foundations.

They bent their knees, wrestling for dominance, until Gilgamesh turned aside his rage. Enkidu spoke to him: 'As one unique your mother bore you, the wild cow of the enclosure, Ninsun! Your head is raised above all men; Enlil has made you king over the people!'

They embraced and kissed one another. In that hour, their anger turned into an unbreakable covenant of friendship. They were as brothers, their hearts bound together under the sun.

Enkidu lay stricken with burning sickness. He spoke to Gilgamesh, tears streaming down his face: 'Listen, my friend, what a dream I had in the dark hours! The heavens roared, the earth replied, and I stood alone before a dark being whose face was like an eagle's claw.'

Twelve days Enkidu lay upon his bed. The illness grew heavy, the strength ebbed from his limbs. On the twelfth day, he called to Gilgamesh: 'My brother has turned his eyes from me; in battle you were my shield, but now I must go down into the house of dust from which no traveler returns.'

Gilgamesh wept bitterly. He touched his friend's heart, but it beat no more. He veiled his face like a bride; he paced to and fro around the bed like a lioness whose cubs have been stolen away.

'Hear me, elders of Uruk, hear me!' Gilgamesh cried. 'I weep for Enkidu my friend, I wail bitterly like a grieving woman. The axe at my side, the sword in my belt, the joy of my eyes has been taken from me! What is this sleep that has seized you? You have grown dark and cannot hear me!'

For Enkidu his friend Gilgamesh wept bitterly, roaming over the open steppe: 'Shall I not die like Enkidu? Sorrow has entered my belly. I fear death, and so I roam the open steppe. To the presence of Utnapishtim, son of Ubara-Tutu, I will take the road in haste.'

He came to the twin mountains of Mashu, which guard the rising and setting sun. Their peaks touch the vault of heaven, and their roots reach down to the underworld. Scorpion-men guard the gate, whose terror is awesome, whose glance is death.

The Scorpion-man called out to Gilgamesh: 'Why have you come this far road? No mortal has ever traversed the dark path of the mountain, twelve leagues of thick darkness where no light enters.'

Gilgamesh answered: 'Because of my friend whom I loved, who turned to clay, I have come. Even though anguish fills my flesh, open the gate!'

Through the mountain he walked. At one league the darkness was dense; at four leagues the blackness was heavy; at eight leagues he cried aloud in the silence. But at the twelfth league, the light of dawn broke upon him, and he saw the gem-laden garden of the gods beside the shore of the vast sea.

Siduri the tavern-keeper dwelt by the deep sea. She looked out and saw Gilgamesh approaching: his skin weathered by frost and sun, his cheeks hollow, carrying sorrow in his belly.

She spoke to him: 'Gilgamesh, where are you hurrying? The life you look for you will never find. When the gods created man, they allotted him death, but life they retained in their own keeping.'

'As for you, Gilgamesh, let your belly be full, make each day a feast of rejoicing, dance and play day and night! Let your clothes be clean, wash your head, bathe your body in fresh water. Look tenderly on the child that holds your hand, and make your wife happy in your embrace; for this alone is the lot of mortal man.'

Gilgamesh answered her: 'How can I be silent? How can I rest? My friend whom I loved has turned to dust, and must I not lie down as he has, never to rise again? Show me the way across the sea to Utnapishtim!'

Gilgamesh spoke to Utnapishtim the Faraway: 'I look at you, Utnapishtim. Your limbs are not different; you are even like me. Tell me how you came to stand in the assembly of the gods and find eternal life.'

Utnapishtim told him the secret of the Great Deluge, and how Ea warned him in the reed hut to build an ark and save the seed of all living things.

Then Utnapishtim said: 'You wish to live forever? Try to stay awake for six days and seven nights!' But as soon as Gilgamesh sat down, sleep breathed over him like a mist. Utnapishtim baked seven loaves of bread, placing one by his head each day, to prove that mortal man cannot even conquer sleep, how then shall he conquer death?

When Gilgamesh awoke, he wept: 'What shall I do, Utnapishtim? Wherever I set my foot, Death is waiting.'

Utnapishtim took pity on him: 'I will reveal to you a mystery, Gilgamesh. There is a plant at the bottom of the ocean. Its roots are deep, its thorn pricks like the bramble. If your hands can pluck it, it will grant renewed youth to your bones.'

Gilgamesh tied heavy stones to his feet and sank to the depths of the sea. He plucked the plant, though it pricked his hands, and cut the stones from his feet. 'I will take it back to Uruk the sheepfold; I will eat of it and return to my youth.'

While Gilgamesh bathed in a cool pool on the journey home, a serpent smelled the sweet fragrance of the plant. It darted out from the water, snatched the plant, and as it slithered away, it sloughed its old skin and was renewed.

Gilgamesh sat down and wept. Tears ran down his face: 'For whom have I toiled? For whom has the blood of my heart been spent? I have gained nothing for myself, only for the serpent of the earth.'

He arrived back at the gates of Uruk. He stood upon the rampart, looked upon the city walls, the orchards, the clay pits, and the temple of Ishtar, and he understood: mortal man lives not forever in flesh, but in the deeds of love, courage, and beauty left behind for his people.