If you are forced to leave your homeland -- part of you stays behind
Your childhood, street, school, your red kite
It's illusive, like not willing to die
You are lying dead but you rise and you turn in order to look to yourself
Do you recognize You?
You ramify in thousand memories, thousand dreams
Very often you stick to the memories
To the moments that sometimes are a dream
Dreams which are so close that they look like reality
Or reality so far that it looks like a dream
You loose connection
You are split in a thousand branches
No matter why, there is always a gap, a distance
There is always someone who is not there
You look in to the hollow, colors are recognizable,
but often not matching with the smell
The albums are full of pictures, and the apostle gifts are often kept unused
Envelops, the letters...... The stamps, the smell of old leather of a purse
and note books that belonged to Mum or Dad
All pieces are kept so well, because each piece has
the soul of a beloved one.
A colored hollow.
Dedicated to, "Layered Lives: "Iranian Armenian Identity Through Contemporary Arts",