My life
is simple, not winter grapes, very juicy and fragrant, like the daughters of
the Temple of Enlil, but my life is a brown heart is full of sand. I remember very well when my Martian friend
landed on it, with a wagon made of wood of the Enkido Door, which he brought to
us from the cedars. I told him, "I admire the way the houses are being
built there. There are no roofs and no grudges." Martians are not like us.
Their hearts hung in the sky. He told me about his ancestors that they drank
the luminous Honey of Paradise. They would go out early in the morning in
search of warmth, as winter butterflies fall asleep in the hands of hard
workers. Times were magical, I remember well that Mars Alley brightly colored,
as if you were looking at an ornate Indian party and that man sitting among the colorful trees with branches, with a hat made of snow, was telling stories
of paradise to children, at that time I knew that we are not the only ones in
history and civilization. I asked about
his age and he was said to be a million years old, but it was strange that he
was full of youth, and I also asked him about his name, which I forgot now
because I was fascinated by those moments in which we were laughing out loud.
