Down the steepy lane, we walk marathon everyday for classes <br /> <br /> <br />We rode in our bare feet, on smooth roads dress with rocks and steel grasses <br /> <br /> <br />We wore tattered costumes, with masculine scent, fly from our inner arms <br /> <br /> <br />We dance the songs of our assignments, while working on our farms <br /> <br /> <br />Our school, is an isle of open air, moving every season, with the weather <br /> <br /> <br />Our class rooms are the ruins of nothing, built by natures tendering feather <br /> <br /> <br />Our books are rough sheets, slates and tree trunks, flatten with knives and painted like our skin <br /> <br /> <br />Our chairs and desks, is our legs, our brothers back, the earth, our cloths made clean <br /> <br /> <br />We do not have an anthem or a melancholic strings to take as school song <br /> <br /> <br />But everyday, we chant praise to him above, with boastful lips and silent tongue <br /> <br /> <br />Each class, we close when the maker torch blind our vision <br /> <br /> <br />Each year, we dwell, with no sport, no dance, no excitement to steer our infant motion <br /> <br /> <br />Our teachers are like prophets, preaching our good wills with no hope for reward <br /> <br /> <br />Is their any one somewhere in this big fluid of gas with a grain of their courage? Please come forward <br /> <br /> <br />We are the fortunates pupils of many african villages <br /> <br /> <br />We have no education luxuries, but we're happy to compose at least few words from our brain pages<br /><br />kemurl fofanah<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fortunates-pupils-of-african-villages/
