The Dying Grass
The thud of the chalk duster
Scatters the young minds
Of the dying grass
The lessons they rote like mist
Rolling over mountains of screams
To muffled ears
Plastic bags of white powder
Clouds so many innocent dreams
Into body bags
The school gates open
To the street teaming with life lessons
From short supplied textbooks
The history books turn a page
To wet fingers of a silent class
Itching for progress in their stagnancy
Flickering like a candle
Placed in a half empty glass
Tossed into the wind to echo ignorance
Locked behind high cement walls
Laughter poured from a tap of love
To water the seeds of the fruit of knowledge
|