I appeared in Ghazni when Book of Kings poet Firdusi pleted the final line of a quatrain with the most intricate of rhymes, besting the court poets of Shah Mahmud, who ridiculed him as being nothing but a peasant. I was there on the quiver of Book of Kings hero Rüstem wheraveled far and wide in pursuit of his missing steed; I became the blood that spewed forth whe the notorious ogre in half with his wondrous sword; and I was in the folds of the quilt upon which he made furious love with the beautiful daughter of the king who』d received him as a guest. Verily and truly, I』ve been everywhere and am everywhere. I emerged as Tur traitorously decapitated his brother Iraj; as legendary armies, spectacular as a dream, clashed oeppes; and as Alexander』s lifeblood shimmered brightly from his handsome er he suffered sunstroke. Yes, Shah Behram Gür spent every night of the week with a differey beh domes of varying color from distant lands, listening to the story she reted, and I ofit of the striking maiden he visited on a Tuesday, whose picture he』d fallen in love with, just as I appeared from the to the caftan of Hüsrev, who』d fallen in love with Shirin』s picture. Verily, I was visible upon the military banners of armies besieging fortresses, upoablecloths c tables set for feasts, upon the velvet caftans of ambassadors kissing the feet of sultans, and wherever the sword, whose legends children loved, was depicted. Yes, handsome almond-eyed apprentices applied me with elegant brushes to thick paper from Hindustan and Bukhara; I embellished Ushak carpets, wall orion, the bs of fighting cocks, pomegrahe fruits of fabled lands, the mouth of Satan, the subtle at lines within picture borders, the curled embroidery os, flowers barely visible to the naked eye made for the artist』s own pleasure, blouses worn by stunning women with outstretched necks watg the street through open shutters, the sour-cherry eyes of bird statues made of sugar, the stogs of shepherds, the dawns described in legends and the corpses and wounds of thousands, nay, tens of thousands of lovers, warriors and shahs. I love engaging in ses of war where blood blooms like poppies; appearing on the caftan of the most profit of bards listening to musi a tryside outing as pretty boys and poets partake of wine; I love illuminating the wings of angels, the lips of maidens, the death wounds of corpses and severed heads bespeckled with blood.
I hear the question upon your lips: What is it to be a color?
Color is the touch of the eye, music to the deaf, a word out of the darkness. Because I』ve listeo souls whispering—like the susurrus of the wind—from book to book and object to object for tens of
thousands of years, allow me to say that my touch resembles the touch of angels. Part of me, the serious half, calls out to your vision while the mirthful half soars through the air with ylances.
I』m so fortuo be red! I』m fiery. I』m strong. I know men take notie and that I ot be resisted.
I do not ceal myself: For me, delicacy mas itself her in weakness nor in subtlety, but through determination and will. So, I draw attention to myself. I』m not afraid of other colors, shadows, crowds or even of loneliness. How wonderful it is to cover a surface that awaits me with my own victorious being! Wherever I』m spread, I see eyes shine, passions increase, eyebrows rise abeats qui. Behold how wonderful it is to live! Behold how wonderful to see. Behold: Living is seeing. I am ever