Down the steepy lane, we walk marathon everyday for classes


We rode in our bare feet, on smooth roads dress with rocks and steel grasses


We wore tattered costumes, with masculine scent, fly from our inner arms


We dance the songs of our assignments, while working on our farms


Our school, is an isle of open air, moving every season, with the weather


Our class rooms are the ruins of nothing, built by natures tendering feather


Our books are rough sheets, slates and tree trunks, flatten with knives and painted like our skin


Our chairs and desks, is our legs, our brothers back, the earth, our cloths made clean


We do not have an anthem or a melancholic strings to take as school song


But everyday, we chant praise to him above, with boastful lips and silent tongue


Each class, we close when the maker torch blind our vision


Each year, we dwell, with no sport, no dance, no excitement to steer our infant motion


Our teachers are like prophets, preaching our good wills with no hope for reward


Is their any one somewhere in this big fluid of gas with a grain of their courage? Please come forward


We are the fortunates pupils of many african villages


We have no education luxuries, but we're happy to compose at least few words from our brain pages

kemurl fofanah

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fortunates-pupils-of-african-villages/