Long street’s tree

A few slender, lifeless trees—colorless and leafless—frame the center of the photograph from both sides in shades of red and black. The middle tree is dark and stout. Its dark, blurry trunk seems wounded by its own redness. This blur prevents us from seeing its rough and tough body; instead, it becomes a warm spot that reveals the clarity of the dry, cold, and fragile branches behind it. It shows us that there is no green or softness; just withered branches that seem to whisper the "blowing of darkness" with the rustling beneath our feet along the longest street in this city. This tree appears to have become the flag of mourners—its mourning has become our eternal sorrow, and we are “a multitude of mourners, like clouds still waiting for the moment to rain.”^*

^*Taken from Forough Farrokhzad’s poem A New Birth