The bird of the imagination in the book takes flight in the dark night, in the monsoon of emotions. The wings don’t just flutter on the plains of philosophy but into the heart of darkness, in the valleys of mysticism and the markets of capitalism. It cries, it wails, it sings, it dances over the songs of separation, on the tunes of love. It flows over the rivers of blood, over the seas of pain to go to land near the tears of oppressed. It plants the desert flowers in the language of poetry. It waters the ashes of hope to dream and seed a better world.
