Martians

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.