Stranger:
In the hollow of my eyes,
For days of days,
You poured a song of dust …
On the curve of my hands,
For years of years,
You made a nest … .
Stranger:
Every night I am a poet,
Till dawn I am a lover,
I become God,
The creator of clay,
Familiar with the dreams of the mystic,
The beginner of the pains of the seeker … .
And again,
Without the mediation of angels,
I breathe into you,
I breathe into the empty world inside you … .
Stranger:
You, a thousand years ago,
Slaughtered and beheaded dead;
In the hollow of my two hands,
You have slept for years … !
And I,
Verse by verse I breathe spirit into you;
Read …
“Noon I swear by the pen” read,
That letter … pain … blood …
That “letter” is another name for God,
Another name for madness.
Soil:
Every night you are a poet,
I think maybe you are from another world!
Until dawn that again, you become the same old painter,
You paint my infinity, with your look.
You are a magical god to my eyes!
And I,
Silent and waiting,
I go inside your poems and paintings,
On the particles of my dusty body,
The place of your kisses,
Or the caress of your hands …
And again,
You enchant me,
You give me spirit,
And I,
In my imagination, I fly free …
Soil:
You look and I,
The vague color of your eyes,
From beyond the dreams of every night of mine!
The color of dust and fire of mine!
In your hands,
I am the story of the earth and the rain!
Every direction that your hands, give me shape,
I bend to that side …
I moan …
Like the crystal,
Or no,
Like the pottery of light,
I act coy …
The tight lock of your lips,
With my lover’s melody,
I open …
Like a free Lark,
Or like the narrator of God’s story,
I, your creation song,
I sing … .
Stranger:
I, inside the pulses of the sky,
Like the plaster bird,
I swing you …
I, like the window,
On the roof of my house,
I frame you …
On the white tip of my fingers,
Light spills into you,
Passion breathes into you,
And you,
You are no longer that always dead!
You can through the passage of dreams,
Like my wings,
On the branches of light,
Become the storyteller of your creation.
Stranger:
You,
For years of years,
You were tired and captive of stone;
But,
With the rise of my hands,
Among my fists,
From the heart of the black cold stones,
You became the free bird,
And I,
The creator of all your moments,
I have given you existence,
The blood of the heart that not … I have eaten dust,
I have given you the sky as a border … .
Soil:
I, full of passage and pain,
On your shoulders,
I go restless to sleep,
I think I am the bird,
Until you blink,
I fly,
I go free to the sky,
I think I am alive … .
The search of the moments of my human,
The human of Adam that no!
A human … a stranger …
But,
You tell me,
Is anyone found ?!
Is a joint work by the sculptor: Reza Asadi, the poet: Dr. Samaneh Asadi Nowghabi and the photographer: Mohsen Bazianfar . November 23, 2012.
The performance of the stranger and the dust is a symbolic and romantic conversation between the creator and the human. A conversation that sometimes we have with our creator, we express our love in some places and we have complaints and grievances in some places.
