The paintings of “Infinite” are calm,
yet they are also a report of turmoil.
The name of this turmoil is wonder—
the kind that emerges from words
in the moment of a poem
or a mystical utterance.
The painter gazes at a valley drowned in mist…
a plain covered with nameless plants…
a road thick with mud…
a horizon lost within the clouds.
The painter pauses…
a sound of lament arises—
a quiet sound no one has heard for years…
the voice of nature:
near, yet gradually forgotten.
The painter stands still—
immersed in mist, road, and footprints—
and repeats the sound…
more softly…
more simply…
more faintly…
Mostafa Pouranjati
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