Gilgamesh Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Which, wind or shine, succeeds in wager struck
brute force perforce? or gentle sun in luck?
The one with demons fights without, within,
the other tempts, litotes as kingpin.
If win or lose upon some throw of dice
depended - would world end in fire or ice?
One coat of superficial paint when shed
tomorrows' sorrows may prepare abed,
for if Sun Wind preceded in the game,
the coatless man might catch cold for his shame,
and if Wind worries first, with Sun to follow
blows hot and cold, then painful 'tis to swallow.
Perchance the answer lies in causal chain
prepared by Fate which patience tries with pain.
Again hot, cold, alternate night and day
play cyclic games, ply round the clock to weigh
the Gods' desires and plans no man may know:
for here today, tomorrow gone, to show
little while pride may stride upon the earth,
and even less when birth bows out to berth.

Great are the Gods, their praise is justly due,
eternal as their laws, as changeless too.
Steeped in deep mystery, in silent state
supreme, their sovereign wisdom moulds Man’s fate.
They stand apart, divine designs review
remorselessly, as sun, moon, stars spin through
preordained orbits. Man must reedless wait
on destined doom, dumb, un-emancipate.
Like some scared rabbit that the pack pursue,
who'd free itself from baying hounds’ halloo,
we heedless fumble, trying to frustrate
bared teeth, and tossing tails articulate,
quite unaware that there, where soft ferns grew,
a trap is set to snap its paw in two.
Serves little gain against the grain to grate!
Gods’ playthings Man remains, to tease and bate.
thus all our joys and sorrows, thoughts wise, true,
emotions, aspirations, founder. Spew
like waves which vainly fog-bound cliffs berate
against that unknown force that rules their fate.

Fate spares no rods, Gods weave unfêted due,
drawn or forlorn our independance too.
Draped in deep dread, well read in silent gloom,
their sovereign wishes frame Man’s fated doom.
Apart they stand, their handiwork behold
mercilessly, as sun, moon, stars are rolled
around their orbits, teach each to obey
in ignorance his destiny, which they
who from the heavens pull the puppet strings
weave round vain dreams of freedom, running rings.
Like some scared hare which, harried by the pack,
to free itself from baying hounds at back,
fleets heedless through the forest unaware
that in its track, dissembled, lies a snare,
so skillfully disguised beneath the sods.
Thus Man remains a plaything of the Gods,
all joys and sorrows, morrows, thoughts wise, true,
emotions, aspirations, crash to smash
against that unknown force that figures fate,
like waves which vainly fog-bound cliffs berate.