Shabnam Zeraati
Shabnam Zeraati
1st Class
/
2009 / Digital print
/ Frame 41X32cm, images: 29,7X15cm,
/ édition of 2 & 1 artist proofs
This work contains 4 poems of four Iranian poets, either contemporary or ancient. It is presented in 4 colors: black, white, red and yellow. The images are the same but their color is different in each work.
Djalâl ad-Dîn Rûmî:
The bird is flying on high, and its shadow is speeding on the earth, flying like a bird:Some fool begins to chase the shadow, running (after it) so far that he
becomes powerless (exhausted). Not knowing that it is the reflexion of that bird in the air, not knowing where is the origin of the shadow. He shoots arrows at the shadow; his quiver is emptied in seeking (to shoot it):The quiver of his life became empty: his life passed in running hotly in chase of the shadow.
Forough Farokhzad:
Remember flight.The bird is mortal. I feel sick at heart, I feel sick at heart.I walk to the porch and scrtach.
My fingers against the stretched skin of night.Dark are lamps of relationship.Dark are lamps of relationship.
No one introduce me to the sun.No one will take me to the feast of sparrows. Remember flight.The bird is mortal
Sohrab Sepehri:
And let’s not fear death
(Death is not the end of pigeon, Death is not the cricket’s inversion, Death flows in the mind of acacia, Death dwells in the pleasant climate of mind,Death speak of morning within the nature of village night, Death comes into the mouth with the bunch of grapes, Death sings in red larynx of throat, Death is responsible for the beauty of butterfly’s wing, Death sometimes picks up basis, Death sometimes empties vodka, Death sometimes sit in the shade, watching us and we all know,The lungs of pleasures is full of oxygen of death)
Khosrow Golsorkhi:
Birds, Are flying from dried branches,That yellow-clad man,Who walks alone and tirelessly,With roads where no passage is allowed,With homes that are put up for rent,What will he do,The land that we love?All birds are wet,There is no chirrup of flight, In our land,All birds are wet,In this land of brittle paper love,
The expectation of a miracle will not be realized.
