The Chalk Beneath My Fingernails

-The Chalk Beneath My Fingernails- I walk a path where roads dissolve, Where rivers rise and hopes revolve, Through jungle mist and dusty lanes, With every step, I carry names— Of children born with hollow bowls, But eyes that shine like tempered coals. The schoolhouse leans against the sky, Its roof a patchwork, spirits high. The walls may crack, the floor may creak, But voices echo when they speak. They spell their dreams in broken chalk, Each word a promise we dare to talk. My salary is thin as thread, But rich the stories in my head. No polished floors, no polished shoes, But lessons written in muddy hues. Each tear I wipe, each hand I hold, Is worth more than a crown of gold. At times, I ache—I won’t pretend, To see no doctor when fevers bend, To watch a child with fevered skin Miss class again, then drop within. But still I come, still I stay, Planting stars along their way. Their questions come like summer rain, Pure, untrained, and free of shame. "Why do the rich live high above?" "Can books be filled with real love?" And I—just one with weary frame— Hold back my tears, and praise their flame. No cameras roll, no praises sung, No headlines catch what's just begun. But every word they learn to write Pushes back a wall of night. And if I vanish without trace, I leave a fire in this place.