[The lyrics below were previously written as a sonnet by D.S.Yarab, inspired by the correspondence and writings of Maria Theresa written upon the loss of her husband, Emperor Francis I, in 1765, when she was 48 years old. They were pulled into service as lyrics and set to music created through the use of artfully crafted prompts, trial and error, and poor judgment, using AI at Udio.com. As always, neither lyricists nor composers are at risk of displacement by my efforts or the advancements of AI.]
Lyrics of Widow’s Lament Of Maria Theresa
The sun, once bright, now veiled in somber black, The stars, extinguished, forsake their shining light, I wander through this never-ending night, In search of solace that I forever lack.
Within, a void remains since your farewell, No more your smile, your voice that warmed my core, No longer does your love and warmth restore, I’m left yearning, my being an empty shell.
Impatience grows, my heart craves the bier, A longing to escape this realm of woe, To find release, to rest forevermore, And bid farewell to all I hold below.
I find no solace but in toil and strain, And close my soul so pain no longer reigns.
Be not the oak that faces stormy gusts, Which breaks beneath the fury of the wind. Instead, be willow, bending as it must, A haven for the wearied kin, you’ll find.
Be not a rock that dams the rivers’ flow, That brings about the havoc of the flood. Yet be a pebble, letting waters go, Creating paths where once tall barriers stood.
Be not a star that flares with blinding light, A spectacle to all who dare to gaze. Instead, a moon that guides through darkest night, A soothing, gentle source of graceful rays.
Do not be oak, or rock, or star that sears, But willow, pebble, moon that endears.
The birch tree braves the winter’s icy grip, Its branches bare, white stark against the sky. It does not mourn the loss of leaves or gold, But waits with patience for the spring to nigh.
The birch tree knows the seasons wax and wane, Each carries purpose, beauty, grace, and pace. It does not fear the frost, the ice, the rain, But greets each one with elegance and grace.
My soul, like birch, endures and perseveres, To rise from earth to heaven’s radiant light. It stands unbowed, unbroken by the cold, But shines with faith and courage through the night.
From birch I learn to face life’s change and strife, To trust in self, let faith and courage guide.
Clay tablets. Story of Gilgamesh and Aga. Old Babylonian period, 2003-1595 BC. Sulaymaniyah Museum, Iraqi Kurdistan. (CC-BY SA 4.0. Dr. Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin).
Homer, even if the fictive creator of the Iliad and the Odyssey, is inseparable in the mind from those masterful and inspiring works of literature. Equally inseparable should be Sin-lēqi-unninni from the Epic of Gilgamesh.
Andrew George, whose engaging translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh is readily acknowledged by later translators of the epic as “a master class in philological precision and ingenuity,” has this to say about Sin-lēqi-unninni:
According to Babylonian tradition the [Epic of Gilgamesh] was the work of a certain Sîn-lēqi-unninni, a scholar from Uruk who was believed to have been a contemporary of Gilgamesh himself. However, Sîn-lēqi-unninni bears a name of a kind not found before the second millennium, so the tradition clearly preserved an anachronism. Instead, there is little doubt that Sîn-lēqi-unninni’s name was associated with the epic because he was the man who gave it its final, fixed form. Sîn-lēqi-unninni is thus one of the earliest editors in recorded history. From a comparison of the standard version of the first millennium with the older fragments we know that the person responsible for the standard version remodeled the poem. He provided it with a new prologue and recast the story to emphasize the theme of wisdom gained through suffering. Probably he was responsible for interpolating a version of the flood story, adapted from the old poem of Atra-hasis, and for appending to the epic as Tablet XII the rump of one of the Sumerian poems of Bilgames in an Akkadian prose translation. He left his mark also on the prosody, reducing variation in parallel and similar passages by combining their lines and repeating them verbatim to produce a text characterized by long sections of repetition where older versions had none. For this he often stands accused of damaging the poem’s literary qualities, but at the same time it can be argued that he introduced a profundity of thought that was probably lacking in the older versions.
Though the editorship of Sîn-lēqi-unninni probably changed the poem so radically that it is no wonder the Babylonians later named him as its author, it is clear from the multiple versions of the second millennium and from the existence of textual variants in the standard version of the first millennium, that he was not the only individual to leave his mark on the written epic. However, we know nothing of these others.
George, Andrew (2008) ‘Shattered tablets and tangled threads: Editing Gilgamesh, then and now.’ Aramazd. Armenian Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 3 (1). pp. 11-12.
George, perhaps, does an injustice to Sin-lēqi-unninni, by relegating him to the role of editor alone. Sin-lēqi-unninni was not mere scribe, nor compilator, nor even editor; rather, because of the number and weight of the substantive additions and structural changes he made to the epic, we may rightly view him as an ingenious co-creator of the ever-inspiring epic, such that modern publications could have a title page reading Sin-lēqi-unninni’s Epic of Gilgamesh.
The life that you seek you will never find: when the gods created mankind, death they dispensed to mankind, life they kept for themselves.
The Epic of Gilgamesh (2020), A. George, p. xlv
Two other translations of the poem in my library, both meritorious and worthy of note, include the recently published Gilgamesh: A New Translation of the Ancient Epic, by Sophus Helle (2021), which sought to strike a middle ground between George’s scholarly translation and the “translations of translations,” which can be used to described the other work in my library, Stephen Mitchell’s Gilgamesh (2004). Harold Bloom described Mitchell’s version of Gilgamesh as the “best I have seen in English” at the time it was published.
Gilgamesh is a well I go to for reflection and creative thought repeatedly. This is not surprising, as The New York Review of Books concisely notes that Gilgamesh inspires reflection and creativity on a multiplicity of levels:
In the century and a half since its rediscovery, however, and especially since World War II, Gilgamesh has made up for lost time. It has been translated into at least two dozen languages and been the inspiration for countless works of theater, film, poetry, fiction, and visual art. Musical responses to Gilgamesh include several operas, a ballet, hip-hop, jazz fusion, and an ear-pummeling track called “Gilgameš” by the Greek extreme metal band Rotting Christ.
Gilgamesh has also been acclaimed as the earliest work of ecological literature and included in The Columbia Anthology of Gay Literature as a founding text of queer writing, for its treatment of the relationship between Gilgamesh and his wild-man friend, Enkidu. The cultural energy of Gilgamesh shows no sign of dimming; the novelist Naja Marie Aidt describes it as a “fireball” that “has torn through time,” constantly in a process of reentry to the present.
New York Review of Books (October 20, 2022), “A Fireball from the Sands,” by Robert Macfarlane.
Some of my favorite more recent creative endeavors include two musical works. The first is a Lament on the Death of Enkidu, set to music and sung in Akkadian, based on the poetry of the epic. Peter Pringle, the creator, notes that he was helped along in his pronunciation of the Akkadian by Dr. George. It is simply stunning. Take a moment to listen and reflect on your mortality.
Gilgamesh’s Lament for the Death of Enikidu
The second is a nod to the ecological message that many find in the epic related to the consequences of the indiscriminate felling of the cedar forest in Lebanon. As explained in the New York Review of Books:
During the UK’s pandemic lockdown, [Robert] Macfarlane cowrote an album with the singer-songwriter and actor Johnny Flynn, Lost in the Cedar Wood. They collaborated on lyrics, sharing photos of notebook pages while in their respective homes, and Flynn would set them to music. “It felt like a wild wonder, to be able to feed words into the Johnny Flynn Song Machine and get a demo back a few days later!”
In addition to daily life in lockdown, the album is inspired by the Epic of Gilgamesh: “We wanted to write something both ancient and urgent,” said Macfarlane. “At the heart of Gilgamesh is the story of an unwise ruler, Gilgamesh himself, taking his axe to the Sacred Cedar Wood and felling these extraordinary trees. A few months after we began work on it, the Fairy Creek calamity started to unfold on Vancouver Island, with the premier of British Columbia, John Horgan, allowing the logging of the old-growth cedar forest there, including trees up to 2,000 years old.” Lines like “It was the first of the tellings/Of all of the fellings” (from the song “Tree Rings”), while unfortunately evergreen, took on a particular significance.
New York Review of Books (July 10, 2021), Ramblin’ Man. Robert Macfarlane, interviewed by Willa Glickman.
Johnny Flynn and Robert Macfarlane’s Tree Rings
To circle back to the beginning, this remarkable creativity is very much, I believe, the result of the creativity and authorship of the ancient editor of the Epic of Gilgamesh, Sîn-lēqi-unninni. He deserves more credit for the depth and reflection which is inspired by the ancient epic in its most familiar form. Let us celebrate his memory every time we read the epic or enjoy any of its derivative inspirational works.
Northcoast Antiquarian 