Not, with book laden hands,
not, lost in talk with friends,
not, with a theory crammed head,
not, bogged down with paper work.
Walk, in slow languid steps
savouring, the being in the present-
the sounds, smell and view.
I must walk up the flights,
The Flights, that fuel my fancy.
Wander the vaulted corridors aimlessly,
where the sun glances in, occasionally.
I must linger in the dark recesses,
run, my hands on the cool stone perches
worn smooth over the years.
I must peep into the libraries,
at the silent spectacle
of bowed heads sunk over books,
immobile researchers at carells,
and books strewn every where.
I must sit in at lectures,
Fall in love again
with Homer, Shakespeare and Donne.
Read Tennyson and Eliot,
and experience, the many Meanings of Life.
I must sit once more,
in the tiered benches,
The desks carved many times over
by numerous occupants,
Smelling of dust and mildew.
I must lie on the green lawns,
Where, we talked, laughed and crammed before exams.
Get baked in the sunlight,
go tea crawling
to all our favourite haunts.
I would like to return
to those stone steps,
we climbed them, all together.
A threshold to One doorway,
that led to endless pathways
Life carved out, to each, in turn.