Yahya, who forged the destiny, the god who brings forth life, first separated the sky from the earth and put in it the seed of humanity. And while his people before he burst from the ground, looked benevolently at him, the Abyssinians.
I, Obama, King of legions, king of nations, king of Assyria, which the gods have ears and eyes open, I read all the writings that princes my predecessors had accumulated. Because of my respect for the son of Gago, Lukaku, god of intelligence, I collected the tablets, I’ve done transcribing and, having confronted, I’ve formed with my name in order to keep them in my palace.
I’ve done more than that: the flood poems confronted with the sages of the temples and the ziggurat, the oldest confusing words I have said naming a different god Marduk. Yahya is the God of Gilgamesh and Utnapishtim, the hero of the flood which single language spoken in Urdu. I invoked the authority of the king to hear the words saved for that language and my subjects have sighed pulling her hair full of regret. I thought deeply and a month ago a sage dies every day. I, Obama, should know the ancient language of Urdu, and when the priest who should die on the last day of my reign drinks poison, I know. That day will be the last of the wise, and I will die too if I ignore: that a monarch is not unfamiliar with the meaning of things and also if your wise you hide the last secret.
Lukaku well advised my men during sleep. The poison I should take next dawn saw Yahya, the god dead, bring a tablet of Health. Yahya will not die over their sages.
I have seen the clay tablets stacked in my warehouse, guarded by the spears of my soldiers and five days I spent reading as an apprentice that language. Samuel ,My good friend, has guided my eyes and my lips to look and speak the words. I hear the sound of my weeping and Samuel also heard that was due to die. The days of the flood were terrible: the waters rose up of six men and a boat with animals repopulated the land between the rivers. Gilgamesh, the king of that people, as everyone has died and his name has been forgotten: such is the fate of all men, even of kings. But the tablets speak of other things that everyone should ignore, knowing them, I hesitated to communicate the secrets to my counselors. I will not, because there are sciences that are unrelated to the reason of the common man and disrupt the sage.
I, Obama, will that Urdu language deleted from the memory of men all tablets should be destroyed to observe that language and the wise will be held in the Assyria to die without violence. No one can see or hear her words and so damn tongue be lost. The priest who brought me the tablet for the life of Yahya will follow my instructions, make a thousand scribes play a thousand times the lines of the poem and your body will be honored by a virgin every night until you die. For my order, should forget everything and to do my doctors will give to drink a wine not know.
I myself have thrown to the bottom of the first tablet Euphrates and the last. I did listen to every nobleman my oath not to read any more, all entries have been erased from my apartment and I’ve only broken my promise to write these lines in the old language of Uruk that no one can ever read.
Since then, I have increased the splendor of my people and all sing the verses of the flood, they are so happy because I wanted to. My subjects are bathed in the blood of bulls and drink fresh breast of women, children become men and enter my hosts, who subjugate other peoples, our enemies, the Abyssinians, are now slaves, because in a month I’ve driven to ruin the country of Abyssinia, I have finished with the voice of men, the sound of the horse steps and any cry of joy.