I never cease to think of this person
Or to care for her
To listen to her stories
And to allay her fears!
To attempt to make sense of her dreams
And to please her fancies
To tolerate her caprices even
Why? Just because she is called I?
Who is-am-I anyway?
Neither Sarah Woodruff nor Anne of Green gable
Just a common consumer is she
Of accolades, apples and electricity, besides maudlin songs.
No different or better than a million others
Then why can I not cease to care for her?
Might it be because I know that
for a quarter of a century now, she has been dreaming?
Of a history of the grand theories in her head
Foolish loafer you may call her, but I will call her a lotus eater
Of ancient tales told in the lost cities in her head
Crazy wench she may seem to you but to me a raconteur.
I cannot not like her, fragile
No less than her gossamer-spun dreams
Besides, she tries to figure why she exists
In her building, a city, a civilisation!
And so do I.
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