When you want to meet someone, you arrange to meet at the gate; Whether you like it or not—in the gateway you will brush shoulder to shoulder with your mortal enemy, fall into the arms of friends, evade the judge’s verdict, steal a pita from a vendor absorbed in an argument, pray, bend down to a beggar, pay homage to the king, unveil your face to your destined one, dodge out of the way of speeding delivery carts and tractors piled high with the city’s trash; you hesitate, listening to the voice of your frightened heart; hidden in the cool shade, you create yet another tribute to eternity, and, significantly, whilst living here you do not grow attached to dates or history—you are history yourself- you pay no attention to the architecture, either —you are one of the gates – your hands are worn by labor; your gaze is alert; you carry a gun tucked into your belt. You have lived here only for a moment, and you die endlessly.
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