Let the reed stylus bite the wet clay,
Not for ledger, not for grain,
But for the hour between sun and sun,
When the moon-boat floats on the Euphrates.

O city of Ur, your bricks are stamped with stars,
Your ziggurat hums like a plucked string.
In the courtyard, the beer jug sweats,
And the lu-gal drinks with the shepherd.
Raise the cup of tamarisk!
Let the fermented barley sing!

On the steppe, the young god lies sleeping,
His shepherd’s crook beside him in the reeds.
His sister, the morning star, has descended,
Walking the dust for his sleeping face.
Her feet are red with the wild barley,
Her throat is raw with calling.

Bring the kid to the high place,
Pour the date wine on the threshold.
We have broken the plow for the season,
We have weighed the silver in the balance.
Inanna is passing the gateposts—
Her garment is fire on the wind.

Under the mud-brick, under the reed mat,
Under the layered dust of seasons,
A cylinder seal waits in the dark.
Lapis lazuli, carnelian thread,
The image of a king receiving his crown
From the horned god on the mountain.
No eye has seen it for four thousand years.

But the river knows.
The river that named them knows.
It whispers still in the rushes:
Sumer . . . Sumer . . .
The black land, the land of the lords,
Where the plow first kissed the furrow
And the scribe first made the world stand still.

Pour out the beer.
Let the cupman fill again.
Before the stars shift their stations,
Before the moon abandons the skyline—
Drink to the mud that held the seed,
To the reed that held the song,
To the hand that pressed the story
Into the earth’s long memory.

For we are the black-headed people,
And our days are counted in water.
But a song, a song goes on forever,
Flowing like the twin rivers,
Wide and slow and deep.