Why am I looking at this drawer
  and am afraid of its contents?
  over 60  love-letters of long ago
  which I could repeat almost by heart
  ( I kept every envelope as well-
    time, date received, year written thereon
   in my best hand
   as though they were worth more than diamonds)
  several containing crushed roses
  a few poems of Robert Browning
  Keats, Byron, sonnets of Shakespeare
  Yeats,  Donne, Thomas Hardy, John Clare..
  every letter a reminder
  of youth's once tender kisses
   solemn vows
  and secret words exchanged
  that could never be shared
  with anyone
  (love is too personal-
   a sacred pledge of hearts
   never to be broken)

    vanished are the dreams of youth
   I am old and weary now

    no longer the proud lover
    but a cynic
    no longer a believer
   in the glory of love-poems
  and stories of romance
  (yes---love is not a fairy-tale
   and all love stories should end
   with this sentence:
  ...and they lived with regret and sorrow thereafter...)

    words are just words
spoken at convenience
for the sake of the speaker
words are selfish
though the speaker knows not

she wrote and spoke more poignantly
than I ever could
she was mistress of words
she wrote as though
she was consumed by the fire of love
and would die in  its burning furnace
for my sake
all for my sake
' I would die for love
and for you, dearest
for you are my life
the very air I breathe...'

(I wept then as those words I read-
I memorised every word )

   Is love but sweet words
  to be forgotten ?
  
  I shouldn't open the drawer
  lest I begin to attribute blame
je deteste?  deja vu? chagrin d'mour?

I was about to stretch out
my hand ...
but my faithful wife called
from the kitchen
' why are you lingering in your study?
  darling, dinner is ready--your favourite chicken curry!'

Too long have I lived
in the wilderness
I find it hard now to speak
the human tongue
nay, even basic words
I've forgotten

the winds and the trees
the moon and the stars
the clouds and the night
the dust blown in the air
even shadows and silhouettes
they've given me a new vocabulary
I am an exile
in another trajectory
but I've chosen this as my home
and am free
and how could one be happy
amidst noisy crowds
in so-called civilised society?

In losing myself
I've at last
found my true identity

The wilderness
is home to me--this oblivion I have chosen
it's no man's station
but I need no conversation

have heard every spoken human word
till no more could I bear
ah, the soothing balm of silence
in emptiness there's no earthly care

The worst place
to be
is where I don't belong
where I cease to be free

and those who claim
to be in authority
announce loudly:
you ****, get out--- immediately!

The best place
to be
is no place anywhere
it's within me

the space
that's within me
has no face
it's my invisible identity

You my pupils asked
' Do you have doubts, Master?'
  My answer: 'They are my starting point
  Without which I could go no further

In its crucible
Dissolves the dust and gold
Crystallises--those who think they
Know all---they fool themselves a thousand-fold'

I live by the rules of nature and its rhythm I follow
I don't complain whether the weather is cold
or hot--I quietly do my day's job and find solace
in good deeds--I learn from masters of old

to whom I owe the greatest debt
in your diligence you knowledge will grow
I am but the planter of the seeds through my teaching
you will leave here with wisdom and set examples for others to follow