The city is in front of me. The concrete buildings turning their backs to the stone houses, couldn't accompany the esthetical values with their degenera-ted  looks.  Here, stone and concrete are angry against each other... The stone doesn't want any thing discrete on the the slope where the angry spirit of the ages has spread. The stone houses want to live for centuries leaning their backs to each other, like the green, uniform grass. The asphalt is like bouncing under my feet. People are passing by. Some speak Turkish, some speak Arabic, some speak Kurdish. Someone old is standing ahead; first he calls someone else in Arabic, then says someting in Kurdish to  someone  passing  by,  he  answers  in  Turkish.   In  Mardin, anguages are arm in arm.
        The words fall into the dark like a symphony... Wandering over the surfaces of the stone houses... Acoustically different but the meanings are same... The languages understand each other. Languages are arm in arm. For centuries, languages and religions have been neigbours to each other on the streets. Sometimes with songs, sometimes in pain, sometimes by love. I walk into the city, asphalt under my feet, words falling into the darkness from languages on my side.

        I listen to everything. I listen to the sound of the shoes of the horses passing by me. I listen to the roaring of the vehicles passing non­stop by me and to the words falling from the languages. Narrow streets start on both sides of the avenue.The city starts talking about herself. People lock the shops... They greet you warmly. The coolness of the greeting falls on the suffocating heat of the evening.