I was a mere book-on which you wrote what you wanted to

I was a mere book-on which you wrote what you wanted to. Drew imaginations and pictures your mind painted. And when you filled all the pages, with yourself, your heart and your mind, it was time to entitle the very first page. For which you chose 'anjan'. 

This book you never owned shall remain in it's place where you left. Or may be taken away by wind somewhere else in someone else's hands. But its pages filled with paintings, and scribbles, and drawings, and sketches-shall always be yours. I fear say the future of this book haunts me. The book written by someone else, read by some other, and thrown in winds of time as if it were mere pages and not a heart, a human heart.