Ilimilku the Scribe · a new plain-English translation from the original language
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Henna, seven maids' worth; the scent of coriander
and of murex — the doors(?) were shut,
the gates of Anat's house — and she met the lads
at the foot of the mountain. And look: Anat fought
in the valley; she battled between the
two towns. She struck down the people of the sea-shore;
she silenced the folk of the sunrise.
Beneath her, heads like clods;
above her, hands like locusts — like a swarm(?)
of grasshoppers(?), the warriors' hands. She bound
heads about her back; she strapped
palms at her belt. Knee-deep she waded
in the blood of soldiery; up to the thighs in the gore
of warriors. With a staff she drove out
the greybeards(?); with her bow-stave, the townsfolk(?).
And look: Anat came to her house;
the goddess made her way down to her palace —
and she was not sated with her fighting in the valley,
her battling between the two towns. She arranged
chairs for the soldiery, arranged tables
for the hosts, footstools for the warriors.
Hard she fought, and looked on;
she battled, and gazed. Anat's
liver swelled with laughter; her heart filled
with joy — Anat's liver
with triumph — as knee-deep she waded in the blood
of soldiery, thigh-deep in the gore of warriors,
until she was sated with fighting in the house,
with battling between the tables. Wiped away
from the house was the soldiers' blood; oil of
peace was poured from a bowl. She washed her hands — the Vir-
gin Anat — her fingers, the Sister-in-law of Peoples:
[she w]ashed her hands of the soldiers' blood,
her fingers of the warriors' gore.
Chair back to chair, table
to table she restored; footstools she returned to footstools.
She drew water and washed —
dew of heaven, oil of earth, showers of
the Rider of the Clouds; the dew the heavens poured on her,
[the sh]owers the stars poured out for her.