Defeating Gilgamesh

It wasn't difficultdefeating Gilgamesh. He is Lord of Uruk no longer, his kingship in ruins, no champion has arisen, not in the city nor in the vast rugged plains circling it. Once he fought his own battles, wrestling, crushing, stabbing. Now he slinks down with a weary sigh. Of his gory what remains? Words... Words carved in stone, words pressed into clay tables, words recorded by historians, and, rarely, words spoken passionately, spontaneously, preserved in a chamber of your heart... It wasn't difficult. Everywhere you turn there are people selling services and things. No one notices an old warrior or two, dragging his clanking armor behind him. I saw a man alone, in a pale blue jumpsuit, hunched for hours his wheel chair, that blob was once occupied by the spirit of Gilgamesh. The spirit left its imprint on this man, you know he was once a king, but now he is a man of memories, they are immortal and weightless... It wasn't difficult: a deep breath exhaled and he totters; strike him with a furry reed and he cowers. Defeat no longer troubles him, victory will not elate him. Pieces of his greatness clutter the room, they are scattered on the floor. People passing by might examine a piece or two, then disgard them. But my soul knows better.