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When I was two or three years old, before going to bed my Granny always read me the same strange poem, which I hardly understood, but which I unwittingly repeat now before falling asleep.

Ten to 15 years ago when my son was a toddler I would sing to him Uzbek songs and recite the best of Uzbek poems every night.

I hope that he will unwittingly remember them when he is in my age.

The greatest of Uzbek poets (our Shakespeare) Alisher Navoi of the 15th century said in his memoirs that before starting to write poetry he had learnt by heart 100,000 lines of classic poetry.

And it's neither exaggeration, nor his imagination.

There's an anecdote about that epoch, showing that everyone at that time was a poet.

Alisher Navoi was playing chess with another poet called Binai and while stretching his leg touched the bum of his adversary.

He joked: 'In Herat wherever you stretch your leg you are doomed to touch the bum of a poet!'

Binai quickly replied: 'Even if you pull your leg back it's still the bum of a poet!'

But poetry lives everywhere, in every society, in every corner of the world.

Once I travelled with an Afghan student who knew by heart several thousand lines of poetry because of his school curriculum.

Another time I met a Talibani leaders who discussed the best of Russian poetry with me.

Every spring one particular Uzbek poem springs to my mind and I repeat it again and again.

Novdalarni bezab g'unchalar
Tongda aytdi hayot otini,
Va shabboda qurg'ur ilk sahar
Olib ketdi gulning totini.

Har bahor ham shu bo'lar takror,
Har bahor ham shunday o'tadi,
Qancha tirishsam ham u beor
Yellar meni aldab ketadi.

When the apricot tree blossoms

Flowers have decorated the branches
Calling the name of life at dawn,
And naughty wind on the first morning
Stole away the aroma of the blossoms.

Every spring the same is repeated,
Every spring passes the same way,
No matter how I try, those shameless
Drafts deceive me and leave for good...

This poem was written by Hamid Alimjan in the 1930s amidst Stalinian repressions, when both my grandfathers were taken from courtyards with blossoming trees to be shot dead as 'enemies of people'.

Do I remember that or is it just a breath of poetry, which deceives me every time with its own beauty?

I'm sure that you have a poem, which you know by heart and keep it close to your heart.

Please send it to me in any language with your translation and some words explaining why the poem is so dear to you.

Then together we'll weave a garland of poems to mark this blossoming spring.