Could That one be I?

 

The hand is strange now
Which is dare to catch
Mental cultivation to produce
Every moment mental horizon
Either to kiss a book
Or to grip the pen
But now being busy out
Might be feeling pain
In the blank silence
On the table alone
Whose friend now is gone away
Leaving a pen, paper and book in grief
With whom one could indulge
To play and to merry make.