A poem of divine punishment after the forest and the Bull of Heaven

The scent of cedar still on their skin,
they strode through Uruk, proud of their sin.
They'd slain a god’s beast, claimed the trees,
and drank from the cup of victories.

But from her palace, Ishtar rose,
goddess of love with thorns in her prose.
She saw the king in all his might,
and offered herself like a blade in light.

“Be my lover,” she purred like flame,
“and I shall crown you with endless fame.”
But Gilgamesh laughed—his voice a blade—
reciting the ruin her love had made.

“You broke each heart like cracking bone—
your lovers left as beasts or stone.
I’d rather death than be your prey,
seduced by night and cursed by day.”

So Ishtar, scorned, in fury burned,
to Anu’s throne her footsteps turned.
“Send me the Bull, the Heaven’s beast,
let it strike down this arrogant feast!”

The Bull of Heaven cleaved the land,
with storms and hunger in its hand.
Rivers boiled, the earth split wide,
a hundred fell with every stride.

But still the brothers stood their ground,
until its heart no longer found
the strength to rise—its life poured out.
They mocked the gods with battle shout.

And when the blood had soaked the field,
they tossed its thigh with careless yield—
to Ishtar’s shrine, a brutal jest.
The gods had seen. They would not rest.

In council deep, the gods then spoke:
"One must die for the vow they broke.
They felled our forest, shamed the throne—
the breath of life, they must atone.”

And so they came with silent tread,
not to the king—but to his stead.
The wild one, Enkidu, marked to fall,
the scapegoat for the sins of all.