It is only a matter of time now, and time, like an ancient tablet, is breaking apart, faster than anyone can reassemble it. Tomorrow, when the last remaining poems of Mesopotamia are submerged and all that was Hasankeyf has drowned, people will speak of the destruction of culture and environment and the memories of the land, though no one, not even the river itself, will remember that it all began with a single raindrop. A droplet from the Tigris ascends ever so slowly, evaporating under the sun, a gauzy spiral of mist. An eternal cycle starts to repeat itself, from liquid to vapor to solid.
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