We moderns are a sad race of people (and that includes me as well). we believe we know everything, when the truth is we know absolutely nothing, zilch, nada. We believe we know what love is, when it is merely another self-aggrandizing emotion for us. We love in order to ‘possess’, to increase our worth in our own eyes, it can have no other culmination for us than this, is nothing in itself, by itself, except perhaps as a source of misery. How different it was even a few centuries ago, in the days of Sauda and Mir, when one loved so as to set free, when the supreme ideal of love was not possession but sacrifice, not misery but celebration, when one did not seek only to grasp in love, nor to give either, but also to give up. Moreover, when one could love a fleeting image one had caught indistinctly in the waning light of dusk as wind swept aside the veil on her face and stay faithful to it forever in one's memory and be happy. I do not expect you to understand this, for i myself do not, am not capable of it, so to say, even though it is i who am writing it.