I remember having a dream, eight years ago. It was a silent night like this and perhaps equally barren and humid too. Back then I was not yet burdened with a profession, so all my responsibilities belonged to the fulfillment of whims of my heart. Then there was this lady who claimed to have loved me more than any she had met before and I loved her too, I know from the heaps of broken dreams and memories left inside my dying brain. Anyway, that night I dreamed of God coming down to the filthy world and asking me, whom it was I wanted to have between Love and the Muse of Poetry?
I still cannot figure out what got into me that night as I replied that I would be delighted to have the love of Poetry for the rest of this life! To be honest in my frank admissions, I have slipped, erred and even sinned on a few occasions. After a couple of years I have stopped writing in my mother tongue out of sadness but that would be the subject matter of another tale, perhaps. I have even considered forsaking this identity, altogether. Yet whenever I have returned to my Muse after such deviations, I have discovered that my love has intensified even more. Each time I have died in pain, my Muse of Poetry has breathed new life into my battered soul. How can I love her not, with my heart and all?
Hundreds of poems later, though at times I feel weary of this bond, I have never regretted that decision I took in the dream, eight years ago.