Statement:

The window of the house opened toward Mount Damavand, and the sun rose in the east, directly from behind the mountain. The snow was dripping onto the hyacinth on the window sill, to set life flowing.

From the alley came the sound of singing. We stepped into the alley; we were in the middle of Naqsh-e Jahan Square. The scent of tiles was in the air — the scent of tiles had filled Naqsh-e Jahan.

It was spring. Suddenly, a voice came from behind the hedges: Who was it that called out, Sohrab? It was familiar that voice. Kashan turned entirely blue — the blue of the tiles, the blue of the sky that at night became a cloth woven from stars.

The wind blew through the pines, and the windcatchers sang along with it.

A trace of gold rested upon the desert, whose name was Yazd. Summer had arrived, and the dates steamed under Kerman’s scorching sun. ///

It was night; a cloth of stars poured down upon us from the desert sky. The rustling of autumn leaves filled the Shazdeh Garden. Leaves fell into the pool of Mahan and flowed onward to the sea. The sailors, riding bicycles through the days, sang the southernmost song. 

The sound of Farhad’s blows upon Bisotun could be heard — snow falling upon his head as he carves through the mountain, so that the world might become sweet.

And we flowed through all of them, and in every corner of it we have roots — ancient roots, older than the soil itself.

And the soil, that same savior earth, after each winter, with the Saba wind the scent of the orange blossoms, always bring Shiraz to the North, We all have danced together to the sound of our own music for thousands of years, this house is filled with dance and song, and will witness no sunset.