I do not understand most local tales
But the gossip and rumor I can get
Imply that, beneath his many, bright veils
About death, Utnapishtim does not fret
Children and paupers whisper about him
They say he was born before the deluge
And for facing that catastrophe, grim
The gods made him immortal; a boon huge
Now he sings stories and tells fortunes here
In a clean and prosperous marketplace
Through which my guide and translator does veer
To bring me with the ageless face to face
I ask the black bard to tell my future
My guide translates: “You merit no future.”
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from D. J. Reddall and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments (2)
Oh wow, that ending was such a plot twist! Never saw that coming. Loved your poem!
What does he know? "You merit no future"? Pah! Immortals, eh? They think they've seen it all. I find your daily stuff extremely stimulating, D.J.. You educate me, get me thinking, show me wonderful art and I like our exchanges. Thank you.