Kirta

([Pertaining to] "Kirta.")
Like dogs shall we howl at your tomb,⁠a
like whelps at the entrance to your burial chamber?
Yet father, how can you possibly die,
or will your burial chamber be given over to howling on the part of women, O my wretched father?
For you, father, weeps the mount of Baal,⁠b
Sapan, the sacred circuit.
The mighty circuit laments, the circuit
broad of span: Is, then,
[Kir]ta a son of El, an offspring⁠c
of the Kindly One and the Holiness?" Into the presence
of his father he enters, weeping
bitterly, giving forth his voice
in weeping: "In your life, our father, we rejoice,
exult in your not dying. Like a dog
your aspect is changed, like a hound
your joyous face. Will you die, then, father,
like the mortals, or your joy change to
mourning; (to) a woman's dirge, O father, my song?
How can it be said, 'A son of El
is Kirta, an offspring of the Kindly One
and the Holiness'? Or do gods die?
The offspring of the Kindly One shall surely live!"
And Kirta the Noble answers:
"My son, do not weep for me, do not
wail for me. Do not waste your eye with
flowing, the brain of your head
(with) tears. Call your sister
Thitmanit, a maid whose passion
is strong. Let her weep and wail for me[?].
[O h]ero, do not tell your sister,
[t]e[ll] . . [ ] . . . . Your sister
I know is compassionate.
Do not let her waters be dried up with grief,
her breath with sorrow.
[W]ait for the setting of the Lady
Sun, and the shining of the light of the
myriads. Then say to your sister
Thitmanit: Our Kirta is making
a sacrifice, the king is preparing
a banquet. Take your drum in (your) hand,
your [tam]bo[urine] in (your) right hand.
Go, take your stand by the songstresses
of your sire. Present [your petitions]
with your music, and he will consent to all."—
At once the hero Ilihu
his [l]ance in (his) hand takes,
his [s]pear in (his) right hand,
and sets out on a run.
[Ev]en as he arrives, it grows dark.
His sister has kindled a lamp. His lance
upon the threshold he stands. Its sheen lights up
the gateway. As soon as she sees her brother,
her [loins] to the ground break;
[upon] her brother['s neck] she weeps:
"Is, [then], the king s[ick],
[or] your sire Kirta [ill]?"
[And] the hero Ilihu [replied]:
"The king is [not] sick,
your sire Kirta [is (not) ill].
[Kirta] is making a [sac]rifice;
[the king is] preparing a banquet.