Ilimilku the Scribe · a new plain-English translation from the original language
[. . .] . . .
'[A lip] [to] [the ea]rth, a lip to the heavens —
[he stretches] a tongue to the stars! Baal must enter
his belly — go down into his mouth,
scorched as the olive is scorched, as the produce of the earth, as the fruit of
the trees.' Mightiest Baal feared him;
the Rider of the Clouds dreaded him.
'Depart! Say to the son of the gods, Mot;
repeat to the Beloved of El, the Hero:
Message of Mightiest Baal, word of the Mightiest of
Warriors: Hail, O son of the gods, Mot!
Your slave am I — yours forever.'
The gods departed; they did not sit down. Then
indeed they set their faces toward the son of the gods, Mot,
toward his city, the Miry Place: a pit, the throne
where he sits; filth, the land of his heritage. They lifted
their voices and cried: 'Message of Mightiest
Baal, word of the Mightiest of Warriors:
Hail, O son of the gods, Mot! Your slave am I,
yours forever.' The son of the gods, Mot, rejoiced;
[he lifted] his voice and cried: 'How shall he invite me —
[Baal] [. . .] shall he honor me(?) — Haddu
[. . .] my war(?) —
[. . .] . . . cut off(?) —
[. . .] my joy(?) —
[. . .] depart . . .
[. . .] . . .