The Girls' Garden By Amir Hosein Bakhshian (Translated by Farshad Torkashvand) is in Progress...

 

 

Bronze Garden

"It's not important that you've broken the idols; what's important is that you've abandoned idolatry." - Friedrich Nietzsche

The traffic light turns green, and I cross the pedestrian line to get to "Girls' Garden" and "361 Degrees" as quickly as possible.

The continuous sound of the clock's pendulum at the intersection reaches my ears. A glance at its hands tells me I need to hurry to get there before her.

The air is foggy, and the sky is covered with dark, gloomy clouds. Following the recent days of rain and the rising water levels, there's a very high probability of the river overflowing and causing a flood, because this morning the weather forecast announced several hundred more millimeters of rainfall are on the way. But there's still no choice but to go and arrive.

A little further down from the intersection, next to a tent with flames, kettles, and chandeliers on its four sides, several bashful young men, without uttering a word, are preparing mud and clay basins with shovels and sieves in hand. They are sieving clay in pairs, and one of them, barefoot, is in the basin arranging rosewater bottles on a pile of clay. A few others are a little further away, piling wood and dry tree trunks in a conical shape, and one or two others are sweeping and watering in front of the tent, and with cloths, they are cleaning and polishing the chandelier lanterns next to the tent.

Now I remember! I had completely forgotten that tomorrow is Ashura, and tomorrow the young men of the city are supposed to transform into clay figures and, in groups of mourners, accompanied by players of the sornay and dohol, beat their chests and bodies in mourning for the Master and Chief of Martyrs, and recite eulogies.

Is this Ashura or Eid al-Adha? 

 Karbala is entirely a garden of blood.

And the chain-hitting groups, with the military march sound of their drums and flutes, will plunge the city into a state of grief and sorrow.

This banner of the standard-bearer has not yet fallen.  

The water-bearer of the tent-dwellers has not yet fallen.

And the storytellers and passion play performers will acquaint the people of the streets and markets with the Karbala incident from different perspectives.

In addition, unmarried girls and skillful homemakers start cooking adas polo (lentil rice), gheymeh polo (split pea stew with rice), writing cinnamon on sholeh zard (saffron rice pudding) and halim (a thick porridge), and making saffron and rosewater sherbets and distributing them to neighbors...

Ashura is a day of uproar and commotion, and today is Tasu'a, a day when everywhere in our city is immersed in silence and contemplation. And according to Mahshid and my mother, who say that in our city this day is "Girls' Day" and this city is "City of Women."

I'm afraid I won't be able to do my work properly today and will utterly disgrace our family, and tomorrow my father himself will personally sacrifice me. Because he strongly threatened me, and the nightmare that has been unsettling my mind for several nights has also contributed to this...

I dream that my father sacrifices me by the turquoise pond in the courtyard, and I see my corpse next to the footbath, having taken its secret to the grave. And I see my other self watching the corpse blankly, without uttering a word. And at that moment, I ask myself, "Which of these am I, really?!"

The sound of thunder comes. I zip up my jacket and continue on my way to gradually transform myself into a form that I had no other choice or found no other way for; like a diver who, upon leaving land and going into the sea, puts on a diving suit and flippers, wears swimming goggles, and straps on an oxygen tank, I also put on clothes that I shouldn't have. In fact, out of helplessness, I sought a solution and gave my head once and for all...

For some time now, as soon as I wake up, a voice echoes in my ear saying, "Keep Calm I am Queen." Until today, I heard this voice from the depths of my being, and it was a feeling or someone who told me, "Get to the Girls' Garden as fast as you can!"

I was exactly at the intersection when this feeling or person said, "Get out and you'll see 361 Degrees and her bridesmaids swinging and spinning and tying vows and offering water and lighting candles and performing the Forty Minbar ritual around the weeping willow tree and the turquoise pond in the middle of Girls' Garden, and quietly, under their breath, saying: candle, flower, butterfly, lily, hyacinth, greenhouse..."

So that whoever wishes can appear and disappear a thousand times in the play of light and mirrors that has begun in the garden.

I've gotten out; even if this cursed feeling, this scoundrel, has fooled me and led me astray. A feeling or someone who, even if they take me to the spring a thousand times and bring me back thirsty, I still won't give up on them. In all this time, only once was my thirst slightly quenched, but I wasn't satisfied.

My mother always says, "When your Plan A doesn't work, don't worry, because the English alphabet has 25 other letters."

I don't know why, but I always think she is the queen I have been searching for my whole life.

I saw her for the first time by the "Araz Fountain" spring, in front of the landscaped entrance to the "Irish Water Lily" gallery. She held a palette and brush, painting a miniature in the style of "reverse glass painting." She was depicting the story of the Chinese and Romans, using a combination of warm and cool colors: violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red.

I thought to myself, this girl resembles the miniature girls in Seljuk and Timurid era paintings, those paintings inspired by beautiful Chinese women and drawn on rice paper, which served as a benchmark for Iranian painters and an impetus for European travelers who journeyed by land and sea via the Spice Route and Silk Road to behold these beauties. They had round faces, small mouths, and slanted eyes, which I later realized was a veil she had put on her face.

Beside her was a truly kind, beautiful, and rosy-cheeked lady with unique features: a face like a full moon, arched eyebrows, and bud-like lips, approximately forty years old, blonde, with blue eyes and a fine line connecting her eyebrow to her temple, and red cheeks and lips from which laughter never parted. Seeing her made my emotions blossom. The sound of Marsha Lash's sewing machine created a distinct resonance in the air, and it seemed as if she were Hanna, a girl in the field, sewing a curtain upon which the following poem from the Masnavi Ma'navi was calligraphed:

The Chinese said, "We are better painters." The Romans said, "We have more pomp and circumstance." The Sultan said, "I will test you in this, To see who among you is superior in claim." When the Chinese and Romans were present, The Romans were more knowledgeable in science. The Chinese said, "Give us one room specifically, And one for you." There were two rooms, opposite each other. One the Chinese took, the other the Romans. The Chinese requested a hundred colors from the king. So that noble one opened the treasury. Every morning from the treasury, colors Were given as a ration to the Chinese. The Romans said, "Neither painting nor color Is suitable for this work, except removing rust." They closed the door and polished, Becoming simple and clear like the sky. From two hundred colors, there is a path to colorless. Color is like a cloud, and colorless is like the moon. Whatever light and glow you see in the cloud, Know it is from the stars, moon, and sun. When the Chinese finished their work, They beat drums for joy. The king entered and saw the paintings there, Which captivated the mind and understanding. After that, he came to the Romans. They pulled up the curtain from the middle. The reflection of that image and those deeds Appeared on these polished walls. Whatever was seen there, was manifested here, Stealing the eye from the eye-house...

A glass panel, which I later saw framed in a window in the Garden of Girls, and a curtain that covered the same window. (It was raining and foggy. The power was out, and there was no light except from the candles of the saqqakhaneh [public water dispensary] and occasionally the silver gleam of lightning. I groped my way through the winding path of the garden and the Shahabad canal to get there. A gabled house in Victorian architectural style with sash windows, a London downspout, a brick chimney, a wooden fence, a boxwood hedge, and a lit Christmas tree at the entrance stood out among the houses. The smell of roasted turkey wafted seven miles away. Suddenly, a girl with golden hair and a lantern in her hand appeared behind the window. She ran her hand over the curtains and window, resting her elbows on the windowsill, as if she had come to listen more clearly to the sound of the downspouts and the patter of rain, or to gaze at the moss-covered trees and the foggy, rainy weather. A luxury car stopped in front of their house. A man in a coat got out, dropped a sealed letter into the mailbox, and left. The girl waved back, but without me clearly seeing her face, she disappeared behind the curtains and window.

Behind them was the brick wall of the gallery itself, with a liver-colored gabled roof covered in Virginia creeper and climbing nasturtiums and Irish water lilies, which perhaps was the reason for the gallery's name. When I first saw the wall from a distance, I thought it was a large tapestry hung on the wall, but as I got closer, I realized that this background was a type of tiling with tiny, small houses that contained the image of a sailboat with a few passengers. I was terribly thirsty and parched, as I hadn't had anything to drink since I woke up with a start that morning; no tea, no coffee, no milk or juice.

Just as I was about to go to the spring and take a sip of water, she paused her sewing for a few moments, rose from her desk, reached into her patched leather bag, pulled out a floral melamine cup, bent down, washed it several times with water from the Araz spring, filled the cup with water, and offered it to me. "Please, you first!"

I don't know how or from where she knew I was thirsty. Whatever it was, I took the cup from her without hesitation, and suddenly this poem came to mind:

Water not sought is not always desired; 

 Sometimes it's an excuse to make you a sacrifice.

I gulped down the water in one go, thanked her, and returned the cup to her. During this time, my hands absorbed the fragrance of the flowers on the cup: the scent of jasmine blossoms and nasturtium flowers, the aroma of night-blooming jasmine and clover flowers.

She introduced herself as Anahita, and acted as if she were the "Goddess of Water," and no one had the right to drink water without her permission. She was so particular, with so much charm, affectation, and gestures, and she spoke as if she had known me for a thousand years. It was interesting that she even asked about my sister Mahshid and emphasized that I convey her special regards to my parents. At that moment, I had completely forgotten that Mahshid and I were twins, and that our resemblance was so striking that it had spread throughout the city, as if we were two apples eaten by a worm from the middle.

Finally, she said, "Whenever you like, you can visit our gallery, and if you're interested, you can help us with the restoration and reconstruction of the saqqakhanehs in the Garden of Girls, because I know you have a knack for it. You are skilled in painting and sculpting, and especially, you possess a 'beautiful mind.' After the restoration and reconstruction of the saqqakhanehs in the Garden of Girls, we are going to register both the Garden of Girls as an Iranian garden and the Chehel Menbar ceremony, which thousands of people from all over Iran and the world attend annually, with the Cultural Heritage Organization and UNESCO. A while ago, with the help of my mother, Mahshid, and the children of the gallery, we held an exhibition in the city called 'City of Angels.' I'm surprised you don't know about this; I thought Ms. Mahshid would have told you. And don't forget, the water from this spring is also healing and from today onwards, you are immune to goiter because it is full of mineral salts, especially iodine. That's why they named it Araz water, or 'throat bulge.'"

In response, I said:

Seek your desire against the norm, 

 For I gained composure from that scattered lock.

And then I asked, surprised, "The Garden of Girls?! As far as I know, no boy is allowed to enter the Garden of Girls."

She laughed and said nothing. I expected her to drink from the spring water with the cup, but suddenly she cupped her hand and drank a few sips from the spring water, as if she were a bird pecking at the water.

When she got up from the spring, she adjusted her navy blue scarf with Shahnameh text and paintings, and then tidied her coat. She wore a lime green coat that diffused the scent of lime into the air. It was a termeh design, patchwork filled with flowers, arabesques, medallions, and weeping cypresses, with a pond and turquoise tiles and beautiful red fish that made one want to pick the flowers from its garden or take a good dip in its pond.

With a special grace and a unique way of speaking, delivering words in broken, clipped phrases like a telegraph, she turned to me and said, "You can come to the Garden of Girls on weekdays, but only on Tasu'a and during the Chehel Menbar ceremony is the entry of boys forbidden. So please, do not withhold your kindness towards us!"

I asked, "What is the etymology of the Garden of Girls?"

She replied, "There are various accounts, such as the existence of two sisters responsible for keeping the saqqakhanehs constantly lit, the Seven Flower-Adorning Sisters, forty girls who sought refuge in the garden from infidel jinn and suddenly all disappeared, a place for girls to play, and most importantly and authentically, that this garden was inherited by the owner's daughters after his death."

It was very early morning, and the air was somewhat dark, with a thin, delightful mist covering everything. Green velvet moss covered the plane and ash trees of the street, and the reflection of the streetlights on the wet and rain-soaked asphalt and cobblestone sidewalks created a special scene, where everything was symmetrical in its reflection. In addition, the scent of plane tree pollen and the smell of raindrops perfumed the air, and with their watercolor magic, they colored the cobblestones. The plane tree pollen acted both as a broken perfume bottle and as color tablets, and the raindrops and spring water played the role of a solvent.

Perhaps you might think all these things I'm saying were just a dream, but believe me, they are the absolute truth, whether it's the place, the time, or the characters I encountered. Only at times did I feel like I was experiencing double vision, so disturbed was my sleep and wakefulness.

Then my attention was drawn to a "361 Degrees" brand bag, which had heavily adorned itself, transforming into the shape and likeness of Chinese idols, reminding one of Humayun, the Chinese princess. It captivated me as if I were Humay, the Iranian prince. A few words exchanged with Anahita seemed amusing, and it was as if she was speaking in Khujandi or Khatni Persian.

When the glass painting was finished, as if she had emerged from a dye vat, she untied her apron strings from her lower back and around her neck, tied and tidied the shoelaces and straps of her "6 Degrees" brand backpack, ran a hand over her face and hair, and then, as a sign of farewell, waved her hand and head towards Anahita, and like a stubborn and rebellious horse, went towards Bank Crossroads.

 My heart pounded, like a bird nesting in my chest, ready to take flight.

Along with Anahita, I moved the embroidered curtain and stained-glass window inside the gallery to protect them from the rain. Anahita said, "This window and curtain are for a customer, and I need to deliver them soon. The window frame and the curtain's border need some delicate work." I replied, "What a tasteful and unique customer you have!" Anahita responded, "You're absolutely right. She's an English woman living in Khorramabad. She's a Quranic scholar and a Rumi expert, and she's collected many books. Overall, she has a strong interest in Islam and Iranian culture." I said, "How interesting! It's truly admirable. Many people have been and still are interested in this culture, like Wolfgang Goethe, Henri Corbin, Reynold Nicholson, Arthur Pope, Caroline Crosskery..." Anahita Afshar added, "She lives in Bagh-e Dokhtaran (Girls' Garden), and her house is entirely decorated with cedar wood, which emits a pleasant scent. She has a room adorned with a Pazyryk carpet and a library with green shelves full of books and archives of films and photos, which she calls 'Persian Room.' This curtain and window are also for that room." I bid Anahita farewell, saying I'd visit her gallery at the first opportunity and consider her suggestion.

She noticed the anxiety and distress on my face and asked, "Mr. Artist, where are you rushing to?" I immediately replied, "There's an angel stuck in stone that I need to rescue." She humorously responded, "If you can remove the mask of this angel, my soulmate, you'll have a prize from me. And don't forget your role, because your work is something else. But if you insist, it's fine. So, turn so we can turn!" I said, "I'm very eager and would be happy if I could accomplish something. However, as you know, our society is the result of a 'disordered mind,' and it will take time to bring order to this chaos. But still, if there's anything I can do, I'll be at your service. The truth is, the reason I woke up in a hurry this morning was a voice that echoed in my ear and, willingly or unwillingly, led me here. It all goes back to a photo I saw on the cover of a foreign magazine. I'll show you the magazine when I have a chance. I think you might be able to help me. I keep thinking the owner of that photo knows me but is hiding behind a mask and keeping themselves hidden from me... Sorry, I've talked too much." She smirked and muttered:

A beautiful fairy cannot hide her beauty; 

if you close the door, she will emerge from the window.

Then she continued, "Certainly. By the way, what do you know about chess?" I said, "I only know that this game originated in India and Iran, and they called it 'Chaturanga' or 'Chatrang,' and as my mother used to say, once upon a time, Iran and India were two sisters who separated from everyone else." She said, "Chess has four main pillars: the board or playing field, the pieces, the players, and the fourth pillar, which is more important than the first three: the rules of the game! Knowing the first three pillars isn't very difficult, but I hope you know the fourth rule well." And then she said nothing, and I said nothing, and I continued on my way. I followed "361 degree" at a distance, trying not to attract her attention. By chance, a group of black-clad women, who appeared out of nowhere at that time of day, suddenly emerged from the Hosseinieh of Habib ibn Mazaher and flocked into buses. Willingly or unwillingly, she joined them.

As I got closer, I saw a young man's obituary posted on the walls on both sides of the Hosseinieh. Beside the obituaries were two large, standing flower wreaths, and a young girl with tearful eyes, like a withered flower, was seeing off and thanking the attendees. The face of the young man, whose picture was opposite a dove on his obituary, looked very familiar to me, but no matter how much I tried to remember, nothing came to mind. I whispered the text on the obituary to myself over and over: "Death is not the end of a dove."

For a few moments, I was confused and bewildered, and suddenly fear gripped me, and my heart sank. But thank God, she didn't get on the buses. In that crowd, with her colorful clothes, she was as clear as day, and it wasn't easy to lose sight of her. But approaching her was difficult too, as it would be considered disrespectful to the mourners and the black-clad crowd.

When I reached the intersection, the green light of the traffic signal spread across the street, as if someone had painted the glass surface with a palette knife and a fan brush. To my misfortune, just as I wanted to cross the intersection, she had already crossed the pedestrian line, and I was stuck at the traffic light. From a distance, I saw her take on a blurred form and disappear into a halo of ambiguity. In the meantime, heavy rain began to fall, and I started counting down the traffic light's timer: ten, nine, eight, seven... My guess was that she was the subject of Eric Lafforgue's photograph, or at least she knew about him. "You will kindly, remove your mask." I was exactly in the middle of the intersection when a whispering voice echoed in my ear, saying, "Mr. Gorbachev, break this wall!"

At first, I didn't pay attention to it because it was in English, and I looked around for an embassy, or rather, a consulate and the Russian flag, but besides a few banks, bookstores, stationery shops, and boutiques, nothing caught my attention. I thought to myself, where was a wall at this intersection? My constant head-shaking made me lose sight of her. Now my only useful task was to pull a piece of paper from my jacket pocket and, with great difficulty, write this sentence on it in the middle of the intersection, amidst the hustle and bustle of pedestrians and the honking of cars, so my mother could translate it and tell me what historical meaning and concept it might have.

After passing the Bank intersection, the fog somewhat lessened, and instead, the rain intensified, so much so that the water level in the gutters rose and flowed into the streets. I pulled up my raincoat collar and opened my umbrella. In the midst of all this, for a moment, I was able to see her; she was engrossed in looking at the display window of a women's boutique nearby, but I felt that this pause was for her to do her "makeup." Because the display window had a mirror-like quality, and I saw her reach into her backpack several times and move her hand towards her face, as if she was changing her mask. Without choosing or buying anything, she reluctantly continued on her way, and I saw her figure move towards Park-e Shahr (City Park)... I also continued on my way, and as I passed the boutique, I saw the salesman among several masked mannequins. All this time, I was thinking about Anahita and the way she interacted with me, the things she said, and her knowledge of my family. No matter how much I racked my brain, nothing came to mind. Perhaps it was because my mind was so chaotic and preoccupied with "degree" 13 at the intersection, and it was unclear what plan, scheme, or conspiracy it was hatching.

Just as I was about to catch up with her, I encountered a crowd of protesters holding placards, their faces wet with rain. They were mostly retired teachers and professors, some of whom had been my own teachers during my school years—the very ones who had opened the window of imagination to me, especially the art, language, and Persian literature teachers from Rajaee School and Amir Kabir High School, who always entered the classroom through the window instead of the door and showed me a city beyond the seas whose windows opened to revelation. And now, at the governorate, apart from factional and political disputes, they were protesting for their dire economic situation and salaries, chanting, "Governor, support! Support!"

I didn't linger there and headed towards Park-e Shahr. On the sidewalk, I walked past an old, deserted building that used to be the Department of Roads and Transportation (Toroq va Shaware') and was opposite Park-e Shahr. I reached the newsstand.

It was there that I heard the same voice again, but this time louder and more firmly, saying, "Mr. Gorbachev, break this wall!"

A tall, long brick wall with a cement facade was covered with all sorts of political and non-political slogans, especially election slogans and sentences tinged with love ("In longing for your sight, I am the most lost... Stranger, don't grieve, I am also a stranger..."). It was also full of various flyers and promotional pamphlets stuck on it. In addition, there were remnants of photos of old and new Iranian and foreign artists like Gheisar, Fardin, Cassius Clay, Bruce Lee, Hedieh Tehrani, Niki Karimi, Mohammad Reza Foroutan, and Abolfazl Pourarab. This mural and vandalism seemed like a collage, similar to what could be seen in Western "graffiti style" and "Cubism." The interesting point was the alphabet letters, most likely the work of girls from Hajar School and Sadr High School across Park-e Shahr, which were neatly drawn on the wall in white, immediately bringing a school blackboard to mind.

ب پ ت ث ج چ ح خ د ذ ر ز ژ س ش ص ض ط ظ ع غ ف ق ک گ

Given my knowledge of boys, this kind of letter arrangement is definitely not the work of a schoolboy or high schooler. I had never paid attention to arranging letters in such an organized way before. A burning desire clawed at my being, and a feeling or someone was urging me to act quickly and piece these scattered fragments together like a puzzle, but I didn't know how.

Across the street, in Park-e Shahr, I saw girls and boys holding lanterns, wearing ponchos, and diverse masks, mostly animal-shaped, appearing and disappearing among the cypress and pine trees of Park-e Shahr, ignoring the rain. Some of them also had medical masks on their faces, which reminded me of a memory of my father who used to say that this very Park-e Shahr (Park-e Shahnavazi) used to have a mobile summer cinema directly behind Esteglal Cinema, which showed short films for the general public as part of the Marshall Plan and Red Cross initiatives, on personal and public hygiene, such as skin and hair hygiene, oral and dental hygiene, and contagious diseases like tuberculosis, cholera, plague, and malaria.

It seemed like they were performing a masquerade and a street play, of the pantomime kind, as they communicated with each other through gestures and vague, incomprehensible hand and foot movements. My guess was that they were children from the Intellectual Development Center's theater group, located in a corner of Park-e Shahr, and they had chosen this location for their performance.

Their performance resembled Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall" music video.

As an audience member, I stood by the newsstand and an old fava bean vendor's cart, reading newspaper headlines, looking at magazine photos, eating spiced fava beans, and watching schoolchildren who, along with their teachers, were lining up at the cinema entrance, while also occasionally glancing at their performance.

I didn't understand the meaning of their performance and this masquerade, but my curiosity was intensely aroused because the newsstand owner said the name of this local play was "Death of Asia Baban" or "Luieneh."

From their group, a girl with a rabbit mask on her face approached and handed me her mobile phone. Without saying a word, she asked me to take a picture of her and the other actors in the play. For a moment, the picture of the boy whose obituary I had seen a few minutes earlier was on the girl's phone, but I didn't understand their connection, which fueled my curiosity; a sign whose meaning I didn't know.

When I took the picture, I saw the Falak-ol-Aflak Castle, or "Shapoor Khast" fortress, in the background. I don't know, perhaps it was there that the idea of building the "Bronze Garden" came to my mind, and that abandoned and unused building seemed to be the best location for constructing this garden. A building whose wall I had to break, no matter what. I snapped my fingers and said to myself, "Eureka! Eureka!"

By building this garden, I wanted to be a dam against Bagh-e Dokhtaran, a garden that would bear fruit in all four seasons, and with all the effort, creativity, and delicacy I possessed, I accomplished this task. And now I had to go to Bagh-e Dokhtaran and break its wall. I was thinking about how I ended up here when suddenly, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and a rainbow appeared. After a few minutes, the sky turned dark, and day turned into the darkness of night. This variability, changing form every moment, is characteristic of spring.

Clouds were in the sky, but scattered. Suddenly, my eyes caught a corner of the sky and the position of the sun, and something that was advancing like a black curtain (like the black curtain of a magic lantern box that appeared before your eyes at the climax of a show, and the showman would ask for more money to continue the performance with new and original storytelling and images) in front of the sun and my eyes.

When I looked around carefully, I saw several foreign tourists on the roof of Falak-ol-Aflak Castle, observing the sky.

I had completely forgotten why I had come to this side of town in the first place. It was rare for me to come to this part of town. Mostly during my childhood, my parents would take me and Mahshid to the area around the castle, or "Dovazdah Borji" (Twelve Towers), during the week for shopping and going to cafes, or on weekends to Esteglal Cinema to watch movies and have soda and sandwiches.

The story was that through Mahshid, we found out that several NASA astronauts from the International Space Station, along with a group of aerospace scientists from the University of New Mexico in the United States, were coming to our city this time not to observe the rare solar eclipse through a telescope like the Hubble, but from the roof of Falak-ol-Aflak Castle, also known as Sepehr Sepehran, with their naked eyes.

I made my way first to the University of Lorestan (the old barracks building) on foot, hoping to see Mahshid there. The university was bustling, and students and faculty from the basic sciences, especially the English and Physics departments, were flocking up the steps and the cobbled path to the fortress.

Later, when I remembered that Mahshid was the translator for the group of scientists and astronauts, I was thrilled and proud of her.

I immediately made my way through the towering trees, the trout pond, the duck and goose pond, the Golestan spring, and among the students and faculty to the rooftop of the celestial fortress, "Ghaleh Rafie," and there, for the first and last time, I met Colonel Neil Armstrong (the one who made Jules Verne's dream of traveling to the moon a reality). Of course, thanks to my sister Mahshid, I was also able to speak with Neil for a few moments and learn new things from this well-traveled man.

Mahshid was the host of the program and also responsible for the translation. First, one of the scientists went behind the podium and, showing many pictures and slides on the monitor, gave explanations to the audience about the stars, planets, moon, sun, and Earth. Then, when it was time to announce Neil Armstrong's name, Mahshid said, "Little Prince, welcome to the planet of poppies!"

Mahshid's reference to the Little Prince was Neil Armstrong himself, whose face was marked by the signs of aging, and her reference to the planet of poppies was both the world Mahshid had created inspired by her dream and Lorestan province, which is known as the planet of poppies. Then she continued, "In Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's 'The Little Prince,' we read that when the Little Prince lands on Earth, he says that he owns asteroid B-612 in the starry sky and has a flower there that constantly complains to him. A flower that he has tamed himself; he watered it during the day and took care of it at night against the severe cold, and he did not allow any birds or animals to get close to his flower. When someone loves you and cherishes you, it means they have become tamed by you, and when you love someone, know that you have become tamed by them, and if you are always in love like a poppy flower, all the better... We have not set foot on the moon, but Neil says that from there, a planet is visible called the 'Planet of Poppies,' where the lives of its people depend on these same poppies, and their heartfelt belief is that as long as there are poppies, life must go on."

Which was met with applause from the audience, and she invited Neil to come to the podium. I was happy that after his separation, he had now reached his heart's desire.

When Neil came behind the podium, I thought to myself, "Could it be that he has come here to boast to us about his moon, the moon he himself conquered, and say, 'Do you see how my moon has stepped in front of your sun?!'"

But when he greeted the audience with a smile and respect, in Persian, "Salaam," and said, "This is the land of poppies, bronze, and oak," I realized that Mahshid's words about him were true, and he had set foot on this land and planet without any pretense. And instead, I have to search for a veiled girl in my own city and country.

At the end of his speech, Neil said, "A trip to the moon is a giant leap for mankind and a small step for a man."

I thought to myself, what a profound and meaningful sentence! A giant leap for mankind and a small step for a man?!

After the speech ended, everyone watched the solar eclipse with their special instruments, and I leaned against the parapet of the rooftop of the celestial fortress and gazed at the silent city. Then I saw the city gradually light up, revealing its white, black, velvet, and golden mountains, and the ancient artifacts suddenly emerged from the earth, further increasing my enthusiasm. But from the vantage point where I was viewing the city, one spot remained in darkness—namely, the Roads and Transportation Department (the old Roads and Highways Department), which was the location I had in mind for building the Baghe Mafregh.

After the ceremony and the end of the solar eclipse, which lasted about an hour, the team of astronauts and scientists, led by Mahshid. We visited the museum of the fortress, and through the labyrinthine corridors, I traveled to the past and distant and near centuries, especially the Sasanian, Al-e Buyeh, Deylamiyan, Seljuk, Safavid, Qajar, and Pahlavi periods. My father once told me that because my grandfather was in the military, he was able to witness the events of the August 19th coup through one of these windows, and how the fate of a country was changed by hoodlums in a single morning and evening.

In addition, when I opened the windows of the fortress rooms, I was faced with new cityscapes, and new horizons opened up in my mind. Perhaps it was there that I became determined to carry out the idea I had been nurturing. Or perhaps it was the female students of Lorestan University who, with their strange outfits and appearances on the rooftop, constantly turning around 360 degrees behind their Chinese telescopes, boasting to everyone, and trying to show off in contrast to the simply dressed, blonde, blue-eyed foreign female students who had come here. I really wanted to know what they were seeing through the lenses of their telescopes that I couldn't see.

It was there that I said to myself and to them, "Soon you will have to watch my Baghe Mafregh, and all of you will be speechless."

Then black clouds gathered, and rain lashed down, and everyone took refuge in a corner of the fortress and found shelter under an alcove. Mahshid and I escorted Neil Armstrong and his entourage to the "Hotel Shaghayegh," and wet and rained on, we returned home. My parents were waiting for us on the porch, standing and wanting to know the details of that day's events, to which I replied, "What I saw there was that the governor himself came among the teachers and retirees and promised to help resolve their problems during the recent trip of the president and ministers to the province."

And Mahshid responded about that young man like this: "One shouldn't simply pay attention to every rumor, but certainly, there is a girl involved."

Then Mahshid went to her bedroom, perhaps to see a new dream, and I went to the bathroom. After a nice hot shower and putting on new clothes, I resolved to start a new project. Exactly when I was applying cream to my face and blow-drying my hair, while facing the full-length mirror of the room, I heard the grandfather clock, and again that familiar morning voice echoed in my ear, saying, "There is an angel caught in the rocks that you must save!"

This very voice became the motivation and stimulus for starting my daily work as a sculptor. A voice that wouldn't let me give up working or quit; a voice sometimes with the tenderness and love of a mother, and sometimes with the awe and authority of a father. Of course, my mother's words were also influential: "My son, you are in a historical turning point, so create so that you may be known!" But the truth is, I didn't create sculptures to be seen; I created sculptures so that I could see her through them. By the way, am I creating, therefore I am? Or am I, therefore I create?

Finally, after much research and study of the works of Mr. Faridoon Ghasemi, Hamid Izadpanah, Peter Calmeyer, and Roman Ghirshman, and being influenced by the Lorestan bronze sculptures in the Falak-ol-Aflak Castle Museum, Reza Abbasi Museum, Iran Bastan Museum, Louvre Museum, British Museum, and Metropolitan Museum, and visiting the Kaldar Cave, Kogan Cave, and Kalmakareh Cave, and the opportunities that Mr. and Mrs. Afshar, the esteemed painting and sculpture teachers of our city, opened up for me (during several sessions on the veranda of Khanomian's house, in the city's cafes, on the rooftop of the castle, and around the Keiyo Lake), I decided to create sculptures not in their actual scale and size, but in their enlarged and magnified forms.

It would have been a shame if these sculptures were not seen and brought to life on a larger scale. In my opinion, the only way for these sculptures to be seen was to exaggerate them and present them in a surreal way while preserving the original shape of the work. I thought to myself, perhaps these valuable sculptures will never be returned to Iran, or no one will be able to see them up close. I wanted to use this historical turning point to be seen and to share what was going on inside me with the people of the city. The points and explanations that Mr. and Mrs. Afshar elaborated for me made me realize the value and significance of the bronze sculptures even more, and they analyzed the inscriptions on the bronzes from new perspectives. Apart from creating bronze sculptures, which itself was a difficult and exhausting task, I first had to obtain permission from the Cultural Heritage Organization and the municipality, which I considered to be the most difficult stage of my work: obtaining the permit and providing a suitable space for installing the busts and statues. When I visited those places, they initially laughed at my idea or ignored me. Apart from the "Baghe Mafregh" idea, I also proposed the "Bagheshahr" (City Garden) idea to give a new life to my birthplace, Khorramabad, this living museum. Indeed, my ambition was getting the better of me. In fact, I wanted to suddenly transform the city into what I had in mind.

In the past, Khorramabad was a city in the middle of a dense forest. A dark city due to the numerous gardens like Golestan Garden, Dokhtaran Garden, and Keshavarzi Garden, and family gardens that cast their shadows over the city, and bright due to the gushing springs like Cheshmeh Araz, Cheshmeh Golestan, Sarab-e Shahabad, Sarab-e Keiyo, Girdab-e Sangi, Girdab-e Maliyeh; in fact, a Venice in the middle of the forest!

I was not a willow to tremble with these winds. Once an idea takes hold in my mind, I don't give up until I execute it.

When I found myself surrounded by the employees and staff of the Cultural Heritage Organization and the municipality who were mocking me, I didn't hesitate and loudly shouted at them, "The siege of cities by land grabbers!"

Hearing this sentence, they said no more and each retreated to a corner. My words were not an insult to any particular group, I just wanted to tell them that they were not in their right place and that they should entrust the work to experts and professionals.

Father was on the porch collecting my mother's waste paper when he said, "Son, work requires calculation and planning; you shouldn't have just rushed in like that! Besides, you shouldn't have spoken to them in such a way and with such language. This was a slogan of Mao Zedong, the leader of the Chinese communists. But it seems the fire spread to our city. 

A blacksmith in Balkh sinned, 

and in Shushtar they beheaded a coppersmith."

My mother put her glasses on, inserted new sheets into her typewriter, and said, "I wish instead of their slogans, they would send us silk and brocade fabrics, embroidered curtains, and dolls and puppets."

I didn't even understand what they were saying. It was as if they were speaking in Yahong and Mahong languages. For a moment, I thought I had entered an unfamiliar city like the Forbidden City, the City of Ghosts, Dogville, or to be precise, a crazy town. I don't know, maybe it's because I haven't left the house for a long time and I'm unfamiliar with this kind of language... It feels like I've been asleep for three hundred years like the Companions of the Cave.

I thought to myself, but now that I'm awake, I want to build a metal wall in front of them.

When my mother saw me in that state, she said, "Bahramshid is a butterfly whose wing flap can cause a storm on the other side of the city." And then she wrote "Butterfly Effect" on the leaves in the copperplate style and drew a butterfly next to it and stuck it on the window. Father also put on his clothes, threw his coat over his shoulders, and said to me, "Come on, let's go see what their point is!"

I had never seen Father like this before; neither his way of dressing nor his way of speaking. He has a certain discipline and always appears outside the house looking like Sherlock Holmes, but this time he appeared in the guise of a velvet-capped character, Fil-e Farsi. After the incident of the gypsum dragon carving in the room, which I erased without Father's permission and replaced with a Simorgh carving of my own choosing, we didn't interact much and were quite distant. I had sworn never to go near creating artistic works, but this time Father didn't want to abandon me.

Before entering the Cultural Heritage Organization and the municipality, he asked me to drink a sip of water from the "Golestan Spring" and the "Ab-e Araz" fountain, which were located at the entrance of both buildings, both to benefit from their miraculous properties and to control my nerves. He also freshened his face and recited a Fatiha for his deceased parents.

By good fortune, several old employees of the Cultural Heritage Organization, especially the mayor at the time, recognized Father, and as soon as they saw him, they stood up and greeted him warmly. They fully welcomed my idea, which was essentially to restore a part of the past concept and identity of Khorramabad city, and on my suggestion, they issued an order to demolish The same abandoned building that was located opposite the city park, so that the "Baghe Mafregh" that I dreamed of could be built in its place.

Another stroke of luck was that the inner courtyard of that abandoned building was full of centuries-old, sky-high trees such as elm, boxwood, poplar, cypress, spruce, mulberry, and alder... In addition to a turquoise pond that had previously been fed by the clear water of the Golestan spring and had now turned into a muddy puddle. The garden only needed some care, which my parents undertook with the help of friends, companions, neighbors, and acquaintances.

Father's team pruned the trees and removed the weeds with pesticide, and like Edward Scissorhands, they shaped the myrtles, boxwoods, cypresses, and pines into geometric shapes or birds according to their natural forms. And Father himself, like Geppetto, carved wooden statues of animals like eagles and cheetahs from the dry tree trunks according to his own taste.

But my mother's team first emptied the pond and cleaned out the mud, silt, and dry leaves in the pond, polished it, painted it, and by pumping water up and down several times, allowed the clear water of the Golestan spring to flow into it again. Finally, they released several goldfish into it, and filled the garden around the pond with fragrant and colorful flowers like Hasan-e Yusuf, Shah Pasand, Atlas, geranium, and colorful varieties of Gol-e Sinereh.

I told them I wanted to build a garden, unlike other gardens that have fences and walls, so that anyone could enter the garden from any direction they wished.

My work plan was that every morning at a specific time, after a recurring nightmare in which I was sacrificed by my father, I would wake up by the turquoise pond in our yard with cries of distress, and in unison with the voice that echoed in my ear, I would say, "There is an angel caught in the rocks that must be saved."

Then I would go to the curtains and the window, draw the curtains aside, and open the window. After watching the penthouse of the opposite apartment building and the long-haired girl next door, who, as always, appeared in her rural girl's pinafore dress, I would dive into the yard like a butterfly swimmer, and without washing my face or eating breakfast, I would tiptoe in harmony with the voice in my ear towards my sculpting workshop in the basement and begin chipping, hammering, filing, and polishing. After a few minutes, I would stop working because I had a more important task. I would have breakfast on the porch with my parents and then go to the Baghe Mafregh, the dream of which I was nurturing.

Father said, "Bahramshid, by building the Baghe Mafregh, is going to take us to The Bronze Age.

My mother laughed and replied, "No, it's not like that. We are now living in the Stone Age."

After finishing my work, Father said, "Bahramshid didn't really do anything except remove the walls. We did the main work."

My mother angrily replied, "What?! My son's artistry wasn't worth much? If it weren't for Bahramshid, that part of the city would have remained in darkness forever."

My mother is right; when you look at the city from the city walls, apart from the Falak-ol-Aflak Castle that shines like a jewel in the heart of the night with its very eye-catching lighting, my four-season garden also displays itself in the color of each season; green, red, yellow, and blue... Everything worked together so that, as my mother said, I could show off my artistry to everyone. A garden full of strange and bizarre creatures, idols, and various colorful shapes.

Father laughed and said, "Bahramshid's garden is more like a zoo than a Baghe Mafregh."

My mother replied, "If this garden (temple) were built in India and China, there would be as many idol worshippers as you could wish for, and women and girls would be making vows to these statues."

And she began to recite poetry: The nightingale will pass by the flower when it sees me in the garden, Who would worship idols if they saw a Brahmin like me? And she continued: If the idol-worshippers of China see your face as an idol, They will all regret their idol-worship.

In reality, I created the sculptures single-handedly, but Mr. Alireza Afshar supervised the manner and creation of the sculptures full-time. And Mahshid, who was a painting student at the Niloufar Irani Gallery, sometimes visited me and Mr. Afshar every now and then with her team and entourage, whom I had nicknamed the "Sicilian Mafia," to offer encouragement and support.

On their team's side, under the supervision and guidance of Mrs. Afshar and the magical hands of Anahita Afshar, they had undertaken the restoration and renovation of the Saqqakhanes (public drinking fountains) of "Baghe Dokhtaran" which was located on the other side of the river and they were preparing for the "Chehel Monbar" (forty pulpits) ceremony.

Their team was working on the design, coloring, calligraphy, painting, illumination, gilding, mirrorwork, and inlaying of the latticed surfaces of the Saqqakhane shrines.

Father said, "In the past, the architecture, tiling, brickwork, mirror work, stucco, muqarnas, girih, and inlay work of the Saqqakhanes of Baghe Dokhtaran were done by a group of architects and master craftsmen from Khorramabad, Borujerd, Malayer, and Nahavand."

My mother said, "God bless my late father, who was an architect, and with the help of the golrizha (those who sprinkle rosewater), golkarha (flower makers), gachborha (stucco carvers), and gachkarha (stucco workers) of the city, how skillfully they made the Saqqakhanes." Mahshid and her team and entourage usually came there in the afternoons, with baskets and trays full of cakes, cookies, blackberries, strawberries, and seasonal fruits, plus pitchers full of lemonade and mulberry juice, and flasks full of tea and coffee. On the other hand, the volume and size of the bronze sculptures that were to be made were very large, and on the other hand, my sculpting workshop, which was located in the basement of our house, could not accommodate them. For this reason, and on Mr. Afshar's suggestion, we set up my sculpting workshop right there in a corner of the garden.

Mr. Afshar said, "This way, the people of the city will become familiar with the process and manner of making the sculptures, and they will appreciate them more."

The volume of work was very high, and several stages had to be gone through to create each sculpture.

1 Silicone mold making for the wax model 

2 Wax pouring 

3 Making ceramic mold for the wax model 

4 Casting 

5 Finishing 

6 Welding 

7 Patina application

And for some sculptures: 

1 Armature 

2 Concrete pouring 

3 Painting

I spent one spring, one summer, one autumn, and one winter creating my bronze sculptures, and I knew no day or night, cold or heat.

Every bust or statue that was finished was immediately installed on a specially designed platform, and a curtain was drawn over it.

My mother laughed and said, "Sometimes I think Bahramshid himself is a mixture of tin and copper."

And Father somewhat completed her sentence and said, "I sometimes think to myself, could it be that Bahramshid's bone structure is made of rebar and his flesh of cement? By the way, Shidrokh, during your pregnancy, did you crave tin and copper or rebar and cement?"

And then they both burst into laughter, and I laughed and said to them, "Soon the curtains will be drawn aside, and the secrets and mysteries of the sculptures will be revealed, and the structure and physiology of myself will also become clear to you."

There is a conversation between you and me behind the curtain, 

If the curtains fall, neither you nor I will remain.

On the other side of the matter, Mahshid's team and entourage in the Girls' Garden, with the magic of Anahita Afshar's hands and Mrs. Afshar's supervision, were hard at work bringing life and beauty to the Girls' Garden Saqqakhanes.We were somehow drawn into an unwanted competition with each other.

My mother said, "It's like the painting competition between the Chinese and the Romans."

And she continued: 

The Chinese said, "We are the painters," 

the Romans said, "We have elegance and grandeur." 

Father said, "In the end, we didn't understand which group was Chinese and which was Roman."

And he continued: 

When the people of China and Rome gathered, 

The Romans were more knowledgeable in science.

Every day after finishing my work, I would first quench my thirst with Golestan water and then take a good dip in the turquoise pond. I would swim from one end of the pond to the other like a butterfly just emerging from its chrysalis. After finishing my day's work, to avoid drifting away from my goal and purpose and to maintain my feelings, I would secretly visit the vicinity and surroundings of the Girls' Garden at night, and I would often recite a poem:

In your hidden days, 

you must light a lamp, 

I do not deserve silence. 

I have only taken two or three oranges as spoils in the garden. 

The heavy morning mist steals my simple sense, 

I lose the branch, 

The mirror is from you, 

I brought the Quran in the rain.

Mahshid said that the forty girls would also go for the fruits after their work in the Girls' Garden was finished, and they would pick as many fruits from the garden as their strength and the reach of their hands would allow; apples, pears, cherries, sour cherries, raspberries, strawberries, pomegranates, and oranges... and they would fill their bags and, according to their age, their baskets with fruit.

Interestingly, the girls of the Niloufar Irani Gallery, based on their own whims, gave made-up names to my bronze sculptures, which had international fame and recognition. For example, the bronze "Circular Standard" which was in the Louvre Museum and had been chosen as the emblem and logo of Bursa, Tehran since 1968, they had named "Tree of Life".

A bronze sculpture with a ram accompanied by six ducks around its wheel, four dancing men holding handkerchiefs and performing a local dance inside its wheel, two bulls supporting the wheel on their horns, and a man and a woman holding hands with the entire wheel between their hands.

Each of the parts and forms of the sculptures I made is full of mystery and symbolism. For example, in the bronze Circular Standard, the ram on top of the wheel symbolizes power, its horns symbolize the crescent moon and the descent of rain, the six ducks around the wheel symbolize immortality, the four men who are performing a local dance - if their dance is considered clockwise, it signifies a mourning dance, and if counterclockwise, it signifies a celebration and wedding dance. The two horned bulls, according to past beliefs, supported the earth on their horns, and the man and woman can be likened to Mashyo and Mashyaneh.

During the month that this bronze statue was brought from the Louvre Museum to the Iran Bastan Museum and put on display, Mr. Afshar and I took ourselves to Tehran to see it up close, and during the visit, Mr. Afshar gave explanations about it to the audience, especially to the French ambassador, which left us all in awe.

A fascinating suggestion Anahita Afshar made was to postpone the demolition of the old building that once housed the Lorestan and Khuzestan Roads and Highways Department, dated 1320, until the opening day. And jokingly, she said the password should be "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"

And by Mr. Gorbachev she meant me, who had no political agenda or approach and whose only goal was to create and produce works of art and nothing else! When Anahita said this sentence, I was initially taken aback and thought she must have some knowledge of my inner thoughts, but then I thought to myself, maybe she said this sentence by chance.

She said "tear down this wall" as if this wall was the Berlin Wall. Her idea was interesting, but its execution was dangerous!

And I didn't accept it out of fear that the walls of the building would collapse on someone's head. Because the walls were old and very wide and had to be removed gradually. Interestingly, we used the bricks of the wall, which were military bricks, to beautify and pave the floor of the garden.

Father said, "The soil here is gold; we must make optimal use of every grain."

My mother turned to me and said, "You have the Midas touch."

The walls around the garden were supposed to be removed, but at Mrs. Afshar's request, the entrance gate of the garden, with its carved columns full of inscriptions and decorations, was left untouched, and we only replaced the tiles of its inscriptions with turquoise-colored tiles on which we installed a poem that my mother loved.

If the favor of God adorns it, 

It is the Chinese painting gallery and the art of Arzhang.

My mother said, "Let the beginning and the end of your work always be with the name and memory of God."

Mr. Afshar and I also jokingly said to Mahshid, Anahita, and Mrs. Afshar, "We wish you would also allow us to enter your garden and give our expert opinions on your work."

They mockingly replied to us, "We offered it to you, but your path was separate from ours from the beginning."

In everyone's opinion, my masterpiece was the sculpture of the "Shir Dal" (Winged Lion), which we placed in the middle of the pond in the garden and positioned in such a way that a fountain of water spouted from its mouth, and the rest of the sculptures revolved around the Shir Dal. But in my own opinion, it was the creation of the Mother Goddess, about which I told them in German: »einen engel öhne flügel nennt man mama« (An angel without wings is called mother).

On the morning of the inauguration, everyone woke up to my mother's scream and ran towards my sculpture workshop in the basement.

My mother asked in astonishment, "Son, where did you get this angel from?"

Father said, "Give me her address so I can go ask for her hand in marriage..."

To which Mahshid replied, "There are as many of these kinds of angels as you want on Telegram and Instagram."

My parents angrily turned to Mahshid and said, "Instead of making sarcastic remarks, hurry up and get ready so we can go to Baghe Mafregh. We have a lot of work to do there, and besides, if you can, find yourself an angel too, but a male one."

When Mr. and Mrs. Afshar and Anahita came to the basement, they were very excited, and Anahita asked me about the stone angel, to which I replied, "I saw an angel in a piece of stone; I carved the stone so much until I freed the angel."

Then we all went to Baghe Mafregh for the opening ceremony. Apart from my parents and Mr. and Mrs. Afshar and a few of the employees and staff of the Cultural Heritage Organization and the municipality, and some of the city's residents, no one was there, whom my mother called "civilized citizens" and thanked them profusely.

Most of those present were art students of the Niloufar Irani Gallery, or the same group of Forty Girls that Mahshid and Anahita Afshar had gathered. It was as if they were the bride and the rest were their bridesmaids. In a way, it was good that the gathering was private, and the girls, who had mostly come from the Golvani celebration, were wearing their local flower-patterned headscarves and were all chattering, giggling, and laughing, and they also took on the responsibility of playing the kamancheh and tombak for the opening. When I went behind the podium, I said to them with a smile, "Dear ladies, if your celebration is over, let me know, because we have a unveiling ceremony."

A few of the children from the Kanun Parvaresh Fekri Koodakan va Nojavanan (Institute for the Intellectual Development of Children and Young Adults) also came, and surely the same rabbit-eared girl was among them. They asked me to allow them to perform their mask shows and plays there every now and then, to which I immediately replied, "I built this garden for the general public, not for myself." They also thanked me profusely.

I was wearing a suit and tie. I had a dress shirt on. I wore cufflinks and a bow tie, and my hair was styled in an à la garçonne cut.

My mother said, "Well, your appearance had to be different from the others. How else would people know who made these sculptures?"

Father said, "You're right. During the year you were busy making the sculptures, you were always wearing a dirty black men's apron."My mother also tied my bow tie for me. But Mahshid had a different opinion and said, "Bahramshid used the bow tie as a symbol and sign because he loves butterflies."

Mahshid went behind the podium and after much coyness, feminine charm, and self-praise - which was not my dream and she laughingly introduced me as a skilled dream thief - she announced the name, details, and a summary of the mystery and symbolism of each bronze sculpture. As she called out each one, we would unveil it. To show respect to someone, we had written the letters of the alphabet on the wall, and on the base of each statue, we wrote a letter from the alphabet and placed them in neat rows in the same order so that this order could be easily seen from a horizontal plan:

B A kind and beautiful winged creature 

P A deer caught in a lion's claws 

T An eagle with a rabbit in its beak 

Th A leopard drinking from a cup 

J A bronze mirror in the shape of a lion and a human 

Ch A winged horse with a hollow stomach from the middle 

H A standing couple on a horse 

Kh Several men dancing in a circle around a horse 

D Circular Standard 

Dh Horse's bit in the shape of a chariot rider, chariot, and horse 

R Horse's bit in the shape of winged goats 

Z Carriages with two riders and four horses 

Zh Bronze ax head with the figure of a male and female archer on either side Its edges 

S A girl with earrings 

Sh Shir Dal (Winged Lion) 

S A depiction of the mythical Zurvan on a bronze plaque 

Z A cup with the image of a falcon in the sky and a lion on the ground 

T Gilgamesh strangling two lions 

Z Gilgamesh taming two mountain goats 

Ain Gilgamesh caressing two small long-beaked birds 

Gh Bronze cup with handles in the shape of two winged goats 

F Bronze pin with a plate depicting the Mother Goddess in childbirth 

Q Bronze bracelet with two lion heads at the ends 

K Bronze axe with a statue of two wrestlers 

G A staff head in the shape of an eagle.