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