I’m Gilgamesh

The sky is as black as the night and the earth is as red as the blood and what is between them is the flood! My heart is a small, afraid kid who escapes from rib to rib, my heart is old, confused between life and death, my heart is a bereaved woman who lost her kids and tears, sadness dried up. God, who gave the missiles their whistles! to make us die twice before the houses break on their residents. Since dawn, the artillery knocks the face of the city, reshapes life and the map, since dawn, neither warplanes nor we sleep, from east to sea, and from north to south. God! Whom they are purifying this land from?!
I’m Gilgamesh, who hates Gods, Ishtar, Anu, Narjana and Enlil the God of war, who sent the flood to purify the earth from its inhabitants, who exterminated children, women and the elderly, stone, trees, people, life and nature, who suffocated air and spread death, blood and ruin.
I’m Gilgamesh and this is Enkido my friend, my lover and my companion is bleeding, I’m Gilgamesh King of Aurora, half a person and half a God, distressed, angry and trembling with loss. I’m the owner of the land and my land became a wasteland. How much of our blood does Gods need to fill this sea, to rise to survive in the ark, how much of our land does Gods need to make us annihilated, where there is no Gilgamesh, no Enkido, no Aurora and no one.
Whoever rose, who held the pen, whoever survived, who held the pen, whoever owned immortality, who held the pen, then he violated history after that, who narrates wins!
Your Gods are your idols, perhaps a free revolutionary will smash them with one blow, so that they fall from their height, strength and immortality, or perhaps they will win and we will perish, and no one will remain to write about us. The idea of being the villains of the novel forever is more terrifying than annihilation itself. O you who dwell in the text of history, write about me, save my face, this is my legacy, take it all, stare at it fiercely.