Robert Minassian

In his journey through the depths of his past, a man finds himself submerged in a flood of nostalgic memories shared with his grandmother. As he searches for an answer, he ponders the fate of his deceased poplar tree, yearning to know if it still breathes with life.

After the explosion, only silence remains. The land is cracked, the roots exposed, the air heavy with dust. Red flowers once covered this place. Now only ash and the memory of their color. A voice speaks in ʿAsfouri, the lost language of birds, calling out to the soil, to what might still listen. There are no people left, only the echo of his words scattered through the wind. When we are gone, will the flowers grow again?

In his journey through the depths of his past, a man finds himself submerged in a flood of nostalgic memories shared with his grandmother. As he searches for an answer, he ponders the fate of his deceased poplar tree, yearning to know if it still breathes with life.

In his journey through the depths of his past, a man finds himself submerged in a flood of nostalgic memories shared with his grandmother. As he searches for an answer, he ponders the fate of his deceased poplar tree, yearning to know if it still breathes with life.

After the explosion, only silence remains. The land is cracked, the roots exposed, the air heavy with dust. Red flowers once covered this place. Now only ash and the memory of their color. A voice speaks in ʿAsfouri, the lost language of birds, calling out to the soil, to what might still listen. There are no people left, only the echo of his words scattered through the wind. When we are gone, will the flowers grow again?