Everything I have is slipping away bit by bit… My power to write is vanishing. If this too is lost, what else will I have left!?
These days even raindrops or the beauty of the village bride seem so pale, so faded to me. Inside me, deep inside, I feel such helplessness!
I can only say that I want to write. Holding so many words in my belly, I want to give birth to poems. Giving birth to poem after poem, I want to kill all superstition and hypocrisy. Riding rhythm's ferris wheel, I want to lose myself in a world of joy.
If a happy person cannot write poetry about his happiness or become poetry's living subject, then he is not happy at all. ...This is how I think.
And if sorrow and pain do not pierce someone deeply, then he too cannot write proper poetry.
Whether I am happy or sad, I have no time to know. I only want to write something good. I want to speak of all my feelings. The joy of having, the ache of loss.
I don't know why... I'm afraid like a child lost at the fair! My heart wants to flee like a fugitive!
If I can no longer write, then how will I live?!