It is as if every lane and piece of marble has a legend. Roving in the conceivably most narrow road the marbles on the walls utter words peculiar to themselves. Legends are interwoven with the panorama of the lane. Everything beco-mes vocal, describing days of lore.

       Past and present become one. They accost each other and engage in a dialogue. A stage is set up and the play starts. Marbles recount the hands and the hammers. The sound of hammers provides the background music. These are converted to a musical note. Songs of love descend into the lane. Senti-mental melodies do not have happy ends. Sorrows come to the fore. Sorrows peculiar to the lane. Sorrows mingle with the laughter of bashful women chattering among themselves by the wall. The sun carries on with its perennial cycle from one side of the wall in the morning to the other in the evening. Women countenance the light taking shelter in the shade. Minarets and church bell towers have a bird's eye view of the play going on in the lane. The sound of church bells mingles with the sound of the hammers. The sound of call to prayers adorns the lane from end to end. People gaze at the sky with a deep sense of reverence and humility. Passing by pigeons coming in their numbers haunt the lane performing somersaults. They come in roves and pop to the centre of the stage one after another. Time dumps the past into the lane. Time wasting away has been tied to the wings of the pigeons. They bring with them the plays of bygone days. The abundance, destitution, sorrows and fascination of days of lore. The sound of hammers continues. Pigeons position themselves at the extremities of the roofs and settle there. A storm erupting from the plains of Mesopotamia is in full swing. Wars are evidenced by the rattling of swords going on in the play. Marbles gripped by ecstasy recount the stories of things they have witnessed. Sounds mingle with each other. The millennium old play goes on. The voice of a child is heard from one of the houses. The child is crying. The woman hugs her husband with affection. The pigeons are flapping their wings toward the sky. The marbles continue their tales. The past and the present is right here in the lane. The marbles and the pigeons are both here. The sun, out of weariness once again recedes from the lane. Centuries, more precisely millennium old legends disseminate to a host of other places. Legends descend into the lane and places. Legends are everywhere in Mardin.