This time I decided to add some poetic-rhythmical description to the photographs shot in Bukhara. To me this is the most precise way of sharing this travel story.
The symbol of this city – Storks.
The craftsman selling metal works.
The decoration for the bread.
The man with tea pot silhouette.
I wondered of these people’s thoughts.
Then shot some shady sunlit spots.
And mystery behind the doors.
The group of women-meteors.
A changed perspective – black and white.
… and now just widening the sight.
Another door, can’t pass it by.
Another shot. I know this guy :)
The argument of little girls.
The tired cat with eyes like pearls.
And when the needle whirls and whirls …
…. opens the door, that’s carved with curls.
The classic language of bazaar.
The colours of the Bukhara.
I know, another door you’d say.
Tranquillity of holy pray.
The arcs of mosque in dusk and haze.
And real life behind the fence.
The murky aisle of life path.
Enjoyment of morning sun bath.
Abandoned wheels, to walk by foot.
Another door, with it’s own mood.
The fruitful choices of life.
The planning of the enterprise.
The lasting of the childhood.
A market in the neighbourhood.
And love beyond the grammar rules.
The symbolism of taboos.
The ghostly heritage in shapes.
And very cosy urban grace.
Our driver (fourth in just one day).
Conundrum spirit of the train.
The endless waiting in the queue.
To stop or move – all up to you.
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