And the castle of white sand withstands the tide,

You’ll return to my side—not at end, nor at start—

Where the breeze and the shore wait, eternal at heart.

To write is to feel, to despair, to ignite,

To hope, to believe, to love, and to fight.

In words bound by rhyme, in dreams softly spun,

Is born the great fire that warms every one.

The weak in their body, yet strong in their soul,

Find truth in the search that makes them feel whole.

In verses are mirrors of dreams and of strife,

Where fable and fact intertwine into life.

My life never dimmed when you came from afar,

Through freedom’s wild walls, through storms that did mar.

A dark-winged angel, you pierced through my veil,

Releasing my heart from its desolate jail.

I soared like a bird through a limitless sky,

Your arrows let loose made my spirit fly high.

Not demon, nor angel, just lost in life’s gale,

You found in my soul the safe harbour you’d trail.

Your burdens forgotten, your sorrows erased,

Your voice found in mine, your spirit embraced.

With faith and with truth, you anchored in me,

And saw in my gaze all you wanted to see.

Yet tangled are nets that you cast in the sea,

Your nights cold and weary, still searching for me.

With hope in your palm, your heart you bestowed,

Now beating in mine where its light has bestowed.

But restless am I, though your soul I hold tight,

For yours will not own me, not morning nor night.

My life’s made of steps, small and often unseen,

Each guiding me closer to what I must mean.

To master life’s reins, to awaken the soul,

To grasp my own worth and to seek my true goal.

Yes, life is a school, its lessons immense—

Could I tame the wild steed called happiness?

This is my tale…

“Manuscripts do not burn.” These immortal words by Bulgakov resonate deeply as I begin this journey – not a memoir in the conventional sense but fragments of a rebellious heart. Here lie myths, fragments of biography, and intuition, woven togewther to form a narrative as boundless as the tides of the Neva.

To write is to be alive. To write is to love, to wait, to hope, and to believe.

This is a story of resilience, a testament to inner freedom, and the discovery of one’s soul against the relentless backdrop of time and fate. It is about the strength we summon from within – not bestowed by the world, but born of our defiance against it. This is the story of how I became who I am, of a journey from Saint Petersburg’s frostbitten streets to the sunlit roads of South Africa.

SAINT PETERSBURG – THE CITY ON THE NEVA

Here, the river whispers to gilded spires and pastel facades, its voice an echo of a city steeped in history. The canals glisten like threads of silver beneath the twilight sky, and every bridge arches like a poised ballerina, connecting not just shores but centuries. This city is a dream frozen in time, a testament to resilience and splendour. The Neva itself, at once serene and tempestuous, mirrors the soul of Saint Petersburg – a soul as enigmatic as the lives that weave through it.

It is here that my story begins, beneath the shadows of palaces and the glow of winter sunsets. The city has always been more than a home; it is a reflection of my soul, a place where past and present dance in an eternal waltz. Every cobblestone, every canal, holds the weight of history, the whispers of czars, poets, and dreamers.

My roots run deep in this storied city, entwined with the grandeur of its past. I am a descendant of an old aristocratic family, whose legacy remains etched into the fabric of Saint Petersburg’s history. My ancestors walked these very streets in a different time, their lives intertwined with the imperial court, their ambitions shaping the cultural and intellectual foundations of this city. Their portraits hang in halls where gilded chandeliers still cast their glow, silent witnesses to a lineage of strength, intellect, and artistry.