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I stared at thenightof the city


desire to meet her was

fulfilled, even if in that

other life. I was drawn to

her with every fibre of my

being and such attraction

surmounts both time and

place. When, on a moonlit

night, that speaker of

ghazals, that young man

came it was from my dark

side. Had I the option,

I would have chosen to




and figure myself. It

resembled a favourite

form of mine, chosen

when I was on stage at

night; his debauchery was

part of my own internal,

secret debauchery. When

one night he appeared

along with your noble

mother, I was perplexed.

I found myself slammed

against a wall beyond the

power of my reason and

consciousness. My faith

was in danger. I did not

know what to do. The

magic of that encounter

made me dizzy and all this

debauchery was beyond

my body’s strength. I

was in heaven but I was

also in hell. As we say in

Kurdish, I was drowning in

fire and in water. You are

made from those nights.

True, you were born from

the real womb of a real

mother and you were

born a perfect creature

made by God and you

were born in a week when

imperfect and disabled

children were born, but

still, nobody knew you

were not a real child. You

are imagination’s son,

the child of my imaginary

nights with Baharbanu.

If you are not my son,

what explains the ghazal

already inscribed on your

chest when you came out

of your mother’s womb?

Oh, child of the day, night

melodies conceived you,