Size: 36 X 48

English translation: I Long to cry, where is, mother, where is my cradle?. The same cradle that I don’t remember, the same real and true safety. The same place where the prince of the tales always chose the poor girl. The same city that was just as big as me but much large than this world. Neither was there any fear of shadows nor the horrors of wind. Neither would I get lost and nor a dove. Don’t say I’ve grown up don’t say it for it sounds bitter. Don’t say crying no longer suits me Come and take me and caress me, I wish to be in your peaceful arms. In this autumn where every green breath has been determined. No one knows how hard it is to hang on like a single leaf on a dying branch. I long to cry, where is mother, where is my cradle. Look how easy the blossom of my love dies out in the mind of wind. Where is that holy and healing hand? Tell her to come and take my hand. Where is the holy mother Mary, the pure Mary? Why is she not thinking of this broken soul? In this anguish why isn’t her green skirt my cover? I long to cry, where is, mother, where is my cradle?

-Zoya Zakarian