This film does not attempt to tell the life story of a poet.
Rather, the filmmaker has tried to recreate the poet's inner world
through the trepidations of his soul, his passion and torments,
widely utilizing the symbolism and allegories
specific to the tradition of Medieval Armenian poet troubadours (Ashough).
THE COLOR OF POMEGRANATES
I am the man whose life and soul are torture.
Poet's childhood
In the beginning, God created heaven and earth.
On the sixth day, God said...
"Now We shall create man...
according to Our image and likeness. "
And God created man according to his image.
According to His image God created him.
And the Lord God created man from the dust of the earth...
and blew into him the breath of life, and Man became a living soul.
And God took the man he created...
And made him live in the Garden of Eden...
so that Man would till the earth...
and tend the Garden.
And the Lord instructed him and said...
Many have come ahead of me, and vaguely known this amazing world,
they have extinguished and expired ahead of me.
Books must be well kept and read,
for books are Soul and Life.
Without books, the world would have witnessed nothing but ignorance.
You should read aloud for the people to hear, in benefit of their souls...
since many are unable to read what is written.
From the colors and aromas of this world,
my childhood made a poet's lyre and offered it to me.
Saint George, we implore you, let your good fortune, your kind thoughts...
spread over our family, on our people, along with your white horse...
be a stronghold for our people, give prosperity to this family.
Give them good thoughts and prosperity.
Poet's youth
We were searching for ourselves in each other.
The river has overflown its banks.
Poet at the court
A prayer before hunting.
We were searching for a place of refuge for our love,
but instead, the road led us to the land of the dead.
You abandoned us and went away, but we the living wrapped you...
in a cocoon, so in your new world you would burst out like a butterfly.
How am I to protect my wax built castles of love...
from the devouring heat of your fires?
You are fire. Your dress is fire...
You are fire. Your dress is black...
Which of these two fires can I endure?
I am a nightingale trapped in a foreign land, and you are my golden cage.
Poet leaves for the monastery.
The wedding merriment, the sadness, the festive singing are all here.
And they shall never leave this place, if we respect the path of spirit.
What is your name? What is your name?
Aroutin.
Beautiful one, come quickly, quickly come, or beautiful one,
Come on, beautiful one, come you, beautiful one...
Kotcha...
Hey, Kotcha...
Godfather! What is your ward's name?
Aroutin.
Aroutin...