The Schoolboy
Streamy tears from above
Roll down the window pane
In a form of beads
Strung by unseen cords.
Bicycles race furiously
In haste away from the torrents,
The world, in ceaseless motion
Except this poor soul of mine,
With heads bowed down in sorrow,
The masquerade tree lamented,
The white line bore no silver lining.
No, not for me
A flying chalk from the janitor
Kissed my head.
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