My life is simple, it is not juicy and fragrant grapes like the girls of the Temple of Enlil, but my life is a brown date, whose heart is full of sand.

I remember very well when my Martian friend descended therein in a chariot made of the wood of the famous Gate of Enkidu, which he brought to us from the Cedar Ends. I told him, I admire the way the houses are built there with no roofs and no hatchets.

The Martians are not like us, their hearts are attached to the sky, even my friend told me about his ancestors. They would go out early in the morning looking for warmth, like winter butterflies that would fall asleep in the hands of the construction workers at the door of the scene and the collectors. The times were magical and picturesque. For example, I remember well that Martian alley with its bright colors, as if you were looking at an ornate Indian party.   What caught my attention the most was that man sitting among trees with colorful branches, with a hat of snow on his head, telling the boys fairy tales. That's when I learned that we are not the owners of history and civilization.   I asked about his age, and it was said that he was a million years old, but the strange thing was that he was full of youth.   I was amazed at those moments when he and I sat with a group of young people of millions of years at the gold seller. We were giggling out loud.