Way back when,
when men were still a novelty,
and what towns there were
were smaller than a ball park,
smaller, often, than a pitch and putt
and no one sentimentalized the out of doors;
when every man was a man of few words
because there were only a few,
and those so open ended and adaptable
that to pin them down required great force
and weighted presentation,
so there was no such thing as a meaningless gesture
and people watched each other —
but there were still, believe me, many secrets
and no one was any the wiser –
many years ago and far away
in the ungenerous badlands of a distant country
were the hot sun addled what the cold night froze
and things were rough all over,
there stood what seemed to its inhabitants
a very splendid city.
It boasted walls, fine walls, made out of stone,
and terrible tall,
and monuments, lots of monuments -
and most remarkably a gigantic king.
The city's name was Uruk, or Uruk of the Walls,
and the king was called King Gilgamesh.
King Gilgamesh had a passion for marvels –
and since king Gilgamesh was something of a marvel himself,
the men of Uruk were at pains to keep him comfortable.
For King Gilgamesh was governed by only his passions
and the city of Uruk
only by king Gilgamesh.
The story of Gilgamesh whom gods called cousin and men called king, is part of our story, with Enkindu, the wild man, who ran with animals until tamed by a whore, and scorpions, more whores of course and the monster Humbaba and Ishtar, the goddess of passion and ancient Utnapishtim
who could remember days before the flood. But it's mainly the story of Gilgamesh
who made a friend,
lost him, then got scared.
It is the oldest story.