Utnapishtim

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.”